


From Us Love Fled

by oooknuk



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 04:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: Methos loses his Immortality, but it's Mac who's really in deep trouble.





	From Us Love Fled

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: language, m/m, heavy angst. Gardening!Methos, kittens, flowers - eeuw!
> 
> My thanks for the help and friendship of Solo and Louise. Louise's mum gave wine advice, and W.B. Yeats through the medium of MacGeorge provided the title

_Paris, 1998_

God, I'm so bloody hung over. I mean, this is nothing new these days, but shit! My head feels like an oil drum being converted for use by a steel band, and let's not talk about the taste in my mouth. No, let's not - not until I throw up that last dreg of bile I had in me.

Methos, Methos, Methos. What are we going to do with you? If you were mortal, you'd be in deep shit. Face it, old man - if you were mortal, you'd be dead, the way you've been putting it away these past few weeks.

Disgusted with myself, I decide to make more of an effort than usual and actually shave this morning. I sniff at my body and decide it might also be an idea to bathe properly instead of the face wash that's been sufficing for days. I'm annoyed at myself, letting MacLeod send me into a funk - today is the day I get over it, him, myself and the whole bloody business of O'Rourke, Amanda and the Game and all the other crap that's wearing me down.

I pad over to my bathroom - something else that needs attention. The housekeeping's gone to pot - must call a cleaning agency when I finish cleaning me. The hot water feels good, and just the simple act of sluicing off the scuzzy feeling lifts my spirits to the point where the resolution to rejoin the real world solidifies. I feel almost perky as I dry myself - my headache is easing and I expect it to go altogether soon, one good thing about Immortality. We don't spend a lot on analgesics, except for recreation, and I've never been into that much. Well, except when I was with Byron and that was a short-lived insanity.

I haven't shaved in as long as I've avoided bathing, and I grimace at my scrappy beard - never could grow a proper one, not like Kronos and that horrible bush he produced. Mac ... no, Methos, don't think about the Highlander. Soap up well to soften the bristles. My hand closes around the handle of the cheap plastic razor I bought to replace the rather nice one I left in a hotel somewhere or other - I really should buy a decent one again, and mentally add that to my lists of things to do to restore myself to the human race. The damn thing looks as if it's going rusty already and is probably blunt ... shit, yeah it is. It just took a bite out of my chin - I wipe the blood away and continue shaving. Wipe the blood away again .... What the hell? I swipe my fingers through the bloody foam and peer at the cut which is stubbornly refusing to heal. I rest my hands on the sink and stare at my bleary eyed reflection. Not again, I think. So quickly? Now I thought about it, my hangover wasn't actually gone at all - it was only relieved a little by the shower.

Well, fuck. Perfect timing, I think bitterly but with no irony. Adam Pierson needed to be deceased anyway, and spending a few months on Holy Ground out of Paris is not only not going to kill me, but will keep me alive _and_ get me away from the temptation to moon around one oblivious, death-seeking Scot.

I finish shaving with considerably more care. The cut is still oozing but it can just keep right on doing that - I refuse to walk about with tissue paper stuck to my face. I grimace and add a styptic pencil and aspirin to the mental list of things I need to take with me on my retreat.

Dressing, I look around. Most of the furniture isn't mine - even the throne chair I have become so fond of belongs to my landlord. My books are the biggest problem. I look at the clock - not too early to call a moving company, which I do and arrange, at great cost, people to come and pack and collect everything that very day. Then I call Angelique, my housekeeper cum tenant at my place outside Paris and told her to expect me. Then everything else is just paperwork.

Several hours, large cheques, and hands wringing by landlord later, I'm ready to go. I have my clothes, laptops and personal papers in the Rover, and the rest will arrive the following day. Adam Pierson will go into the deep freeze and stay there until I can arrange his demise. I have stepped into one of my more pleasant personas, that of Jonathan Parsons, a mild man in the Pierson mould, but considerably wealthier, an antiquarian and eccentric, who is planning, if possible, not to leave Holy Ground for the foreseeable future. A future, I foresee, without Duncan MacLeod in it.

I feel bad about Joe, and consider leaving him a note, before reluctantly abandoning that idea. If MacLeod thinks he can find me through Joe, he will be relentless, and damn, I can't deal with MacLeod in my normal state of health, let alone now things have changed so much.

 

* * *

[100 km from Lyon, 2003]

Duncan climbed the stairs to the front gate of the old abbey thinking if there were a more isolated place within a day's drive of Paris, he didn't know about it. He hadn't called ahead - a waste of time if he wanted his quarry to be here when he arrived, and he most certainly did. He rang the bell - literally a bell with a clanger, with a deep and resonant sound.

He waited nearly ten minutes, and was going to ring again when the gate's peephole opened. "Monsieur, puis-je vous aider?"

"Oui, m'selle. Is ....?" Damn, what was Methos calling himself? "Is the master of the house home?"

"Monsieur Parsons? Oui, bien sur." She made no effort to open the gate.

"Well, may I speak with him?"

"Monsieur Parsons does not see people, Monsieur. Je suis desolée." She didn't sound very 'desolée'.

"Look, I'm an old friend of his, and it's important. Could you ...? Tell him it's about Joe Dawson."

The tiny face behind the grill looked dubious. "All right. Attendez." She shut the panel.

Duncan hadn't expected to be welcomed with open arms, but this fortress-like mentality was intensely annoying. Methos was on Holy Ground - he didn't need more protection than that. More than that - it was discourteous. It wasn't likely the Mormons would be calling all the way out here and anyone who'd made the effort to come had done just that - made an effort.

He fumed and waited, but there was no sign of the mysterious female. Should he ring again? Methos was likely to see that as provocation and Duncan would _never_ see him. So all he could do was cool his heels awaiting the old man's pleasure.

After many minutes, the grille opened. "Monsieur Parsons bids you welcome, Monsieur MacLeod. Come in."

How the hell had ... Methos must have worked it out from her description, Duncan figured. Just like him to try and throw his guest off. He followed after the diminutive woman up another steep stone staircase, and through an ancient stone archway into a cool, cloistered garden. It was beautiful - and not just because of its age. It shrieked of care and love bestowed on a daily basis - Methos must have a good gardener. "Monsieur MacLeod? May I take your bag? Your room is this way."

"I'd like to see Monsieur Parsons first."

"Your room is this way, Monsieur," she said firmly, heading off. He had no choice but to follow her.

She took him to a whitewashed room, light and airy, with a bed, a straight-backed chair and a chest of drawers with a mirror on top, its only furniture. "If you wish to wash, Monsieur, there is a bathroom there, behind the door."

"Monsieur Parsons?" Duncan asked.

"I will come and collect you soon, Monsieur. Is there anything you require? Do you wish anything to eat or drink?"

"No ... yes, actually some water would be nice."

"Oui. I will bring it to you. Please make yourself comfortable, monsieur."

Not at home, he noted, although that was not a French expression. If 'Monsieur Parsons' never saw anyone, why was the guest room ready?

Shrugging at the eccentricity of a man he'd once called his closest friend, he did as the woman suggested and washed up, glad to wipe his face and clean his hands. His trousers needed brushing and oddly, Duncan felt the need to make an effort. After all, he was uninvited - Methos could have sent him away.

He tidied himself and then looked about the room, which was as spare as it first seemed. The bed was firm, and not very old, but the other furniture was antique and in surprisingly good condition, without there being any sense of it being specially protected. Perhaps it had come with the abbey, he thought.

The woman returned in twenty minutes with a jug of iced water, and waited politely while Duncan quenched his thirst before saying, "Monsieur Parsons asks if you would kindly come to him?" She made it sound as if Duncan might have better things to do, instead of it being his primary reason for being here.

He followed her out into the cloisters again. "What is your name, m'selle?"

"Angelique, m'sieur."

"I'm Duncan, Angelique."

"Oui, je sais," she said calmly, before they entered a hall and she led him to another door. "Monsieur Parsons is in there, Monsieur MacLeod." She opened it and held it for him as he stepped through, but did not follow him.

It was a library, Duncan realised, but where was Methos? There was no Immortal presence to be felt at all - was the Ancient playing a game with him?

"I'm here, MacLeod," a familiar voice said, and an equally familiar figure stepped out from behind a tall bookcase. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Duncan was too stunned to speak, and stood gaping like an idiot. How had he managed to hide his Quickening?

"Mac?" Methos said with some impatience.

"Your Presence ... it's gone...." Methos didn't answer, but merely motioned Duncan towards a heavy leather armchair. As the old man moved into the light, Duncan was shocked to see gray hairs among the short dark thatch - and God, was that .... wrinkles? "Methos, you're _aging_!"

Methos cocked his head. "Did you come all this way to insult my appearance, MacLeod, or was there something more pressing? As you were told, I don't see people, and you weren't invited, so what's up?"

"I'm not welcome?"

Methos folded his arms. "I didn't say that, but it has been some time since I saw you. What do you want? Or is this simply nostalgia?"

The familiar acerbic tones brought Duncan out of his shock, and he ignored the plainly obvious physical changes in Methos to answer the immediate question. "It's Joe."

The old man stood up. "So Angelique said. Would you like something to drink? Some wine? Or would you prefer whiskey? I have Scotch and Irish." He walked over to a side cabinet and waited for Duncan's answer.

"Whiskey - the Scotch, if you don't mind." He watched Methos carefully pour him a generous slug, but nothing for himself. "You aren't drinking?"

Methos shook his head. "Not any more, MacLeod." Then why do you keep alcohol you don't drink for visitors you don't have? Duncan asked silently. "Tell me about Joe. Is he ill? In trouble?"

"He's dying, Methos," he said bluntly. Methos' grip on the back of the chair tightened until Duncan could see the knuckles go white, and his eyes grew very wide. He said nothing, but Duncan knew he had his full and complete attention. "His heart is failing - the only hope is a transplant, and at the moment he's in hospital waiting for one. He ... he may not have long, if they can't find a donor." Methos waited, still as stone. for his next words. "You need to see him before ... you know."

Methos nodded, visibly unclenching the tension in his body, and sat down again. "How did you find me?"

Is that your only comment, you callous bastard? Duncan thought, his anger flaring. He forced his voice into a polite range. "When Joe ... when he got ill, I did some detective work, traced the company who moved your stuff out here. Methos, are you going to go see him?"

"Where is he?"

"In Seacouver."

Methos pursed his lips. "And you say, not long - are we talking hours, days, what?"

"A few weeks - two months at the very most, probably less than that. Even if they get a donor...."

"No guarantees, yes, I know, Mac." Methos sank into his own thoughts and Duncan took the opportunity to examine the changes time had wrought. Methos was thinner, gaunt almost. His hair was still thick but Duncan hadn't been mistaken about the gray hair - when one considered the lack of Quickening, he had an uneasy feeling it wasn't faked. "Go ahead and say it, MacLeod," Methos said suddenly.

"Have you lost your Immortality?" Duncan blurted out. He'd never heard of such a thing but Methos was unique even amongst their kind.

"Yes. Now, about Joe ..."

"Yes? That's it? No explanation? Methos, what the hell is going on?"

Methos sighed and wiped his hand over his face. "There's nothing to tell - my Immortality flew out the window five years ago and that's it."

"That's why you left Paris?"

"Yes."

"And why you didn't tell anyone? Me? Joe?"

"Not exactly. But I didn't think it was permanent - it's happened before ...."

"How the hell do you misplace your Immortality?" Duncan yelled, out of patience with Methos' oblique exposition.

Methos' voice was icy. "Macleod, although you are a guest, I do not allow people to shout at me in _my_ home. Moreover, it is really none of your business. I am not Immortal, it appears I will never be Immortal again, and so any right you had to argue or fight with me under the so-called bloody Game has long gone. You are here because of our former friendship and because of Joe. Don't fucking push it."

Duncan subsided. "I'm sorry."

Methos lifted his chin in acknowledgement. "Apology accepted. Drink your whiskey. To answer your question, yes, I will go see Joe. Have you made a booking?"

"Next Tuesday." He could have got a flight sooner, but he had expected Methos to put up more resistance than this.

"Okay, then confirm it. Until then, you are welcome here, if you wish to stay. Angelique will make sure you have everything. I take it you're planning to drive us to Paris?"

"Lyon actually - we can get a connecting flight," Duncan said, relieved at the ready agreement. "And I'd like to stay - it's been a long time, Methos."

"Yes." Methos stood. "Well, that's settled. If you need a landline, Angelique will show you where you can call, and if you need computer facilities, likewise. Feel free to go anywhere you like - except in this room, if you don't mind."

"That's it?" Duncan asked, puzzled.

"What did you expect, Highlander? As you said, it's been a long time. I have things I need to do if I'm going to be away for a while, so if you'll excuse me ...."

"But your ... condition ...!"

"Is none of your business, as I said." Even so, Methos' tone was more kindly than before. "Mac, I do have things to do. Would you like to eat dinner with me? At seven? You don't have to, I can have a tray sent to your room."

It was earlier than Duncan was used to eating but he didn't mind. "Of course I want to have dinner with you. I'd like that very much. Thank you."

Methos smiled. "Mac, if you're talking to Joe ... tell him to hold on."

"Yes." Hazel eyes met brown, and in that brief moment, the one thought between the two of them was of their friend. In that, they were in complete harmony.

"Until dinner, then." Methos waved his hand toward the door and Duncan took the unsubtle hint graciously.

He put the glass down. "Thanks for the Scotch. It's excellent."

"Only the best for the Highlander," Methos said without a trace of irony. "Later, Mac. I'll come find you."

Angelique was waiting on a chair not far from the door. "Monsieur, do you require a telephone?"

"Yeah," he said, still thinking about the strangely formal conversation he had just had and then amended his manners. "Yes, thank you, Angelique," he said more politely.

"Then please come this way to the office."

She led him down the hall and into a small wood-lined room which was equipped with an ultramodern fax, computer and even a photocopier. "Please use anything you need, Monsieur." She pointed to a discreet button near the light switch. "All the rooms have this. If you press it, I will come. If you need anything cleaned, please leave it outside your room, and I will see to it."

"Are you his housekeeper, Angelique?"

"Oui, Monsieur. I have lived here for twenty years."

Twenty years? He would have thought she was only thirty, but looking at her more closely, he guessed she was closer to forty than thirty. "You must have been very young when you first came here," he said gallantly.

"Oui, dix-sept ans. Monsieur Parsons, he ...." She stopped and flushed. "Forgive me, Monsieur, this is private business. For myself, I do not care, but he is very careful. Vous comprenez?"

"Oui, bien sur. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. Thank you for your help. I'll make those calls."

"D'accord. If you don't need me, I will leave you?"

"Thank you, yes." She left MacLeod alone.

He couldn't resist the temptation to snoop, just a little. The office was preternaturally tidy, but the files and cabinets meant that all the equipment wasn't just for show. He'd always suspected Methos was actually wealthy, but here was the proof of it - he was clearly running some extensive business or estate from here. Was Angelique his secretary as well? Nothing about her said she was anything more than staff - but would he know? This secretive, formal version of Methos was alien to him - and it disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Of course, the fact he claimed to be no longer Immortal was the most peculiar thing, but Methos' calmness in the face of what seemed a terrible calamity was, for now, dampening down Duncan's natural reaction to that news. He certainly wanted to know more about it and Methos' statement that it was none of his business wasn't going to stop him. In fact there was more than one mystery for him to explore here. The question was, would Methos permit him to do so?

He called the airline and confirmed two tickets in three days' time, then placed a call to the hospital where Joe was staying. The nurse he spoke to reported that his friend had had a comfortable night and that his condition was unchanged. "Will you tell him I'll be there Wednesday?"

"Of course, sir."

"No word about a donor then?"

"No, I'm sorry. And if we had, he'd already be in theatre - we can't delay with hearts."

"Yes, I understand. Okay, I'll be back soon. Tell him to hold on for me."

He hung up. The last time he'd seen Joe came back vividly to him - the grey skin, the raspy laboured breathing. He'd looked eighty, not the nowhere near sixty Duncan knew him to be. He had to come through this, Duncan thought fiercely. Of all the mortals he knew now, Joe was the most precious, the one whose loss was going to hurt .... Methos, he thought suddenly. Methos is also mortal. Methos will die too.

Oh God, he thought desperately. Not Joe _and_ Methos too - even if they both lived another forty or fifty years, could he really bear to lose them both? Somehow, even when Methos had disappeared so suddenly, he'd known the old man was still around, had counted on that - somehow, he always expected that Methos would be there to help with the pain of Joe dying. What if he wasn't?

He wanted to talk to Methos again, now, but the old man had made it clear that he wanted to be alone until supper which was ... oh, just half an hour from now. He hadn't noticed how late it had become. Duncan supposed he could wait - no point in getting all worked up about something he knew nothing about as yet.

He was finished in the office so he wandered back outside into the cloisters. The garden looked inviting and he decided to look closer - his first impression of great love and care having been bestowed was confirmed. No weed dared invade here, no damaged leaves marred the appearance, and the flowers looked grateful for the attention. In the middle, holding pride of place, was a weeping beech which provided generous shade against the sun, and under which was a pale oak bench, no doubt someone's favourite place to sit in the evening. He sat down and looked around. The abbey wasn't that old - eighteenth century, he knew. It was called Les Fontaines, presumably after the more famous Fountains Abbey in England, since he had not detected any spring or fountains which otherwise explained its name. His brief research told him that Methos, or rather Jonathan Parsons' 'great-uncle', then his 'son' and his 'nephew', had owned the place for fifty years - it had been abandoned and almost ruined during the war. Someone - Methos? - had done a lot of work restoring it to its present gracious splendour.

"Ah, I see you've found my hiding place," Methos' baritone called, and then Methos himself peered out from behind a bush. It was weird not to be warned he was coming. He smiled. "You like?"

"Very much. Your gardener is talented."

"He's been carefully trained. So, are you hungry?"

"Yeah. Is Angelique cooking?"

"Heavens no, that's one talent she doesn't have. No, I'm afraid you'll have to put up with my efforts tonight, MacLeod. Coming?"

It was just as well Methos had come to collect him, since Duncan had absolutely no idea of where they would be eating. It turned out to be the old refectory, which had been converted into a combined kitchen and dining room. It still had the old stained glass - no, it couldn't be, Duncan realised, it had to be a replacement. "I love what you've done here," he said in frank admiration.

"Yes, I'm moderately pleased myself. Red or white, or would you prefer spirits?"

"Don't open a bottle just for me, Methos," Duncan protested.

"It's not a problem, Mac, honestly. It'll keep until it's needed - I can always cook with it."

"With this?" Duncan said in amazement, holding up the bottle of Burgundy - actually a rather fine Louis Latour Cote de Beaune-Villages. "It's sacrilege."

"So's a heathen living in an abbey, if you come right down to it - and cooking well with good wine is a perfectly legitimate thing to do with it. I gather you would like to try this?" The man looked too innocent by half.

"Yes, if only to stop you cooking with it!"

Methos laughed, a clear joyful sound that made Duncan grin to hear it. "You can do the honours then - I've got some vegetables to turn."

Duncan poured out the wine, savouring the colour and bouquet, privately promising himself that not a drop of this was going into a coq au vin if he could help it. Methos was apparently drinking mineral water, which he had already poured into a glass. Duncan rested his butt on the edge of the counter and watched his friend bustle about. Just like old times, he thought wistfully. What had gone so wrong that Methos had had to leave? "Can I ask you something?"

Methos didn't even turn around. "Sure," he muttered into the oven.

"Why did you leave without telling anyone?"

Now he did turn around. "It's not like I haven't done it before, Mac."

"Not like that, you always told Joe. He was pretty hurt."

Methos looked genuinely regretful. "I know. Mac, I needed to get to Holy Ground fast and I needed not to be traced."

"You panicked?"

"Sort of." Methos didn't sound entirely sincere. "Anyway, you've found me."

"After five bloody years, Methos!"

Methos' eyes narrowed, but the reprimand that was so obviously on the tip of his tongue never made it past his lips. "What's five years in the scheme of things?" he said lightly, turning back to his cooking.

"Five years when I could have died, you could have died - Joe got sick! Methos ..."

The old man turned back to face him and this time, his gaze was pure ice. "Drop it, Mac. If you want to talk about this, let's do it after dinner. If you want to talk about anything, I'd appreciate knowing more about Joe's condition, which, if you'll forgive me, is somewhat more important a topic to me than what may or may not have been the right thing to do half a decade ago."

Duncan's mouth snapped shut, and for long minutes he could not bring himself to restart a conversation stopped so brutally. Methos ignored him, and basted the roast chicken that was their supper. Finally the old man himself broached the subject. "Why hasn't Joe been given one of the new artificial hearts?"

"Something about him being an amputee - too powerful, I think, although I imagine they can get around that if the patient is willing. It might also have had something to do with him saying he'd rather die than have a fake heart."

Methos snapped upright and stared at him in astonishment, before laughing. "Good old Joe. He does realise that there's no difference between an artificial heart and the legs he uses? I presume he's switched to the latest bionic ones?"

"Yes, and he knows he's being inconsistent. You ever tried arguing with him?"

"Yes."

"Ever won?

"No," Methos admitted, grinning.

"Well, there you go."

"Indeed. Cutlery's in the drawer there, Mac, and the serviettes and plates are underneath, if you wouldn't mind."

The easy way Methos ordered him about, the informality of the meal, tore at Duncan. It was like this before ... before what? Why had the old man discarded their friendship? He clearly didn't hate him, but Duncan also knew that had he not sought him out, Methos would still be lost to him. He forced himself to obey the embargo on the topic and spoke instead of their sick friend. "The doctors think he's got a good chance of getting a new heart - he's not a rare blood type, and there are more being donated these days since the law was changed."

"I hope so for his sake - but he'd be better off with an artificial one. They last longer, there are fewer drugs, the survival rate is as good or better than live organs ..."

"Will you ... I mean, would you take one? If you need one?"

Methos looked at him coolly. "Yes. After dinner, Mac. Now, you're a breast man, if I recall correctly," he said, smirking at his own double entendre.

"I've become fond of legs too, you know," Duncan said playing along.

The meal was simple, delicious, and obviously made good use of local produce. Dessert was fruit - no cheese, or puddings. "Watching your waistline, Methos?" Duncan asked, peeling an apple.

"Someone has to. You're looking fighting fit yourself."

"Can't afford not to be these days," Duncan said gloomily.

"The Gathering?"

"Oh, the fucking Gathering, it's like the gas man, always coming, never comes. No, it's just the same, no worse. I hate it, Methos. You're well out of it - if you are."

"I am. You're not going to drop this, are you?"

"Probably not."

"Then bring your fruit over here." Methos sat down on one of twin leather couches and swung his long legs up. "Go on, ask away."

"I don't know where to start - you don't seem very upset about losing your Immortality."

"No, I did all that years ago. I assure you the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth was fairly gruesome for a while there."

"But you got over it?"

"Eventually. After all, there's nothing I can do about it, and it's not like six billion other people on the planet aren't in exactly the same position or worse. I mean, I can hardly complain about my conditions, can I?"

"You said it had happened before, but I've never heard of this ...."

Methos sighed. "You're not old enough, and we old ones don't talk about it for obvious reasons. It happens, oh, every five, six hundred years, sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on how many Quickenings we take. People like me, Marcus - Cassandra most likely - who aren't that active, find our Immortality just drops out for a month or two. Usually it comes back - we hide, usually on holy ground, and then everything's fine."

"But yours didn't come back."

"No. Maybe it just finally wore out." Methos sipped calmly from his water, as if he wasn't talking about something which would mean his inevitable death.

"There has to be a cure!"

"There is. But it means someone else has to die."

"A Quickening? If you take a Quickening, it will come back?"

"Sure. Are you offering yours?" Methos' eyes were utterly guileless.

"Of course not...!"

"And there's the dilemma. Mac, I know once I was the most conscienceless bastard in the known world, but I'm not about to go looking for some harmless Immortal to whack so I can live a bit longer, and for obvious reasons, I'm not going anywhere near the non-harmless ones."

"But you're going to die!"

"So are you, if you don't win the bloody prize. I wouldn't mind betting I live longer than ninety-nine percent of the Immortals around now."

"But you're going to get old, maybe sick. Methos ... I don't...." Duncan shut up before he made a fool of himself. To his surprise, Methos stood up and came to sit next to him on the other couch.

"Duncan, I know this is a shock," Methos said quietly. "It was a shock to me, and I've had longer than you to get used to the idea. But think, will you? I'm out of the Game, I don't have to kill anyone any more to survive - haven't you dreamed about that?"

"Aye," Duncan agreed.

"Yes, I'll get old. I can't say I'm looking forward to it. On the other hand, unlike a lot of men past their prime, I'm starting out with perfect health, with more than adequate resources. Many elderly people live well and healthily up to the day they drop dead. I've done all the things I've wanted to do. I have no regrets - well, none that matter. Don't grieve for me before I've gone."

"Is this why you ran? To stop us grieving for you?"

"It's why I stayed away, yes."

"I've missed you. Joe missed you."

"I missed you guys too. I thought maybe ... one day ... I'm glad you found me, Mac." The sudden warm smile made Duncan's heart rejoice.

"And after we come back, will ... I mean, you'll keep in touch?"

"Sure." Methos sprawled back on the chair. "So, you haven't told me how you've been. How's the love life? Seeing anyone?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"Okay, what's she like?"

" _He's_ an artist." Methos' only reaction was a slight widening of his eyes and a sip of his water. "You don't seem surprised."

"I'm shocked and amazed, Mac, but I've got to consider my blood pressure these days," he joked. "You still haven't told me about him."

"His name is Andrew - Andrew Summers."

"Oh, yeah, I've heard of him," Methos said in recognition. "He does those modern, burnished steel things. Like Anthony Caro."

"That's him. We met at a retrospective of Tessa's work, can you believe?"

"He's only young, isn't he? I seem to remember reading something about him being hailed as this _wunderkind_."

"He's twenty eight - no kid," Duncan said, slightly defensively.

"So, where is he?"

"In Paris," Duncan said without elaborating.

"So why didn't he come? Does he not know Joe?"

"He knows Joe, he doesn't know I'm Immortal - and I don't think I'll ever be able to tell him."

"Ah."

"And what does that mean?" Duncan said more belligerently than was actually polite.

"It means - 'Ah.' As in, that's obviously a problem for you. Don't you trust him?"

"No," Duncan admitted. "Not after what happened with Anne."

"But if you don't tell him ..."

"Eventually he'll see a fight or work out I'm not getting any older - yeah, I know."

Methos stayed silent, and Duncan didn't feel like pursuing the matter. "What about you? Are you and Angelique ...?"

"Angelique is my housekeeper, MacLeod," Methos said severely. "It's been a long time since I slept with the help."

"She didn't want to violate your privacy by telling me how she knew you."

Methos laughed. "More likely she was embarrassed."

"She said she didn't mind on her own behalf."

"Well, there's no big secret - she's just a waif I picked up."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Methos, you aren't the type to go picking up strange teenagers."

"And you know this how, exactly?" Methos said in irritation. "How well exactly do you know me, MacLeod?"

"I'm sorry - that was rude of me. Where did you meet her?"

"In Rouen. I was working there and one night Angelique's druggie boyfriend mugged me and shot me dead. She saw the whole thing - including me coming back to life. She didn't seem the type to join the Watchers and since she wanted nothing more to do with the murdering bastard who had knocked her up, I offered her a job and a place to live here in exchange for her silence. It's worked out well - she's been totally reliable and trustworthy."

"Knocked up?"

"She was two months pregnant - she had the baby here. Her daughter's at university now. During the holidays, she and Angelique live in the village down the hill."

"Not here?"

"I live here. No one else."

"But you keep a guest room ready."

"Making a bed takes all of five minutes, MacLeod."

Duncan wasn't convinced, but he kept his thoughts to himself. "So, does she know ... I mean, she knows you're not ...?"

"Yes, I had to tell her - she was worried about the physical changes, just as you were. She's not stupid. And she's well paid and well-situated, so she's not going to take advantage of me, if that's your next question."

It was all too much to take in. "I feel like I never knew you at all," Duncan said with the slightest tinge of resentment.

"Maybe you didn't. But I'm not that mysterious. Tell me more about Andrew. What's he like?"

Duncan didn't actually want to talk about his lover - the fight they had had when Duncan was about to leave to go to Joe's bedside had been ugly, and there had been too many of them like that recently. More and more Duncan had found himself thinking of the man sitting in front of him now, when arguing with the man in front of him then, and finding the latter wanting in so many ways. He should really have ended it long ago - he wasn't even sure why he'd mentioned him to Methos, except it was defensive, to show the old man he hadn't been waiting around for him. But Methos hadn't even blinked at him having a male lover. "Mac?" Methos prompted. He realised he had been lost in his own thoughts.

"Sorry - just wool-gathering."

"I'm assuming from what you aren't saying that things are not going well."

"No." And this was the first time he had admitted it - he had been so _ashamed_ at screwing this relationship up, like so many before it.

"Are you going to leave him?"

Duncan shrugged. "He lives with me, but yeah, I guess so. I was kidding myself that I could have a serious relationship and hide my Immortality, but it's such an important part of who I am ...." He looked at Methos' kindly expression. "But it's not ...."

"No, Duncan, it isn't. It's part of what made you who you are, but if, like me, you became mortal tomorrow, you would still be Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. The question is - is that enough for Andrew?"

"No. Not any more. God, Methos, I don't know what the hell is wrong between us, but it's no good. Truth is, if Joe hadn't got sick, I'd have gone back to the States anyway. Andrew's ...." He stopped. He couldn't insult the man behind his back. "We're too different," he finished lamely.

" _We're_ different, Mac, but we're friends."

"Huh, some friendship when you leave without a word like that."

Methos stood up and went over to the kitchen area to pour himself some more mineral water from the fridge. "Did you ever stop to ask yourself why?"

"Did I ever ....? A thousand times! But I never got an answer - one minute you were saving my life, all our lives from O'Rourke, and then you were gone. What did I do, Methos? Because it _was_ me, wasn't it? Something I said, didn't say - tell me!"

Methos looked down at his glass, and his eyes were hidden from Duncan's sight. Finally he sighed. "It wasn't you. It was me. I ... wanted more, I guess. I didn't know what, not exactly. I guess if all this hadn't happened, I would have finished drinking myself into a stupor every night and just got on with life."

"Drinking ....?" Duncan had had no idea that had been going on. "Why?"

"Self-pity. Nothing important. Just feeling low, dissatisfied. Penalty of great age," he smiled ruefully.

Duncan was missing something here - some clue. He'd felt that a lot lately, mostly when he was arguing with Andrew. "But why were you so unhappy? Was it to do with O'Rourke? Or before that? The Horsemen?"

Methos shook his head. "Certainly not them. O'Rourke? Yeah, he had a part to play. Him, Amanda ..."

Duncan was completely lost here. "What the hell has _Amanda_ got to do with it?"

"Nothing whatsoever." Methos looked at his watch. "Look, it's late - and I know it's very boring but I don't keep city hours any more, and I'm tired. Why don't we talk tomorrow?"

"Methos ...."

"Mac, please? Tomorrow? Now, when you're ready for breakfast, make yourself at home here - I think you should be able to find something to suit you. Goodnight, sleep well."

And with that, Methos tossed back the rest of his water and strode out of the room, leaving Duncan confused and a little hurt. How did Amanda fit into all this?

Duncan couldn't sleep for a long time - Methos had thrown out too much new information for him to assimilate. Duncan felt like the old man was trying to tell him something and that he, Duncan, was just too stupid to see what it was. On the other hand, the old man was also a master at hiding what he wanted to hide. Damn the man! Couldn't he just come right out and say, "Mac, you did X and it pissed me off"? What _was_ 'X'?

He finally fell asleep and had hateful dreams of arguing with Andrew, fighting violently, and he woke up sweating. Was that where his relationship with the young artist was headed? They'd only fought with words so far, but Andrew was physically strong and very aware of it - would things get worse if he stayed?

He got up and washed his face, then decided that a shower was probably a better idea. He made it quick - he guessed that the abbey's water supply was probably from cisterns and the summer had been a hot, dry one. Feeling a little less frazzled, he dressed and wandered out to savour the cool dawn air. The scents from the garden tickled his nose pleasantly - he envied Methos this place, and could hardly blame the man for wanting to stay here. If only he would keep in touch with his friends, Duncan would have no complaints. Well, maybe one, but that was academic under the present circumstances.

He realised someone else was enjoying the coolness - Methos was kneeling before one of the beds, gently tending to one of the small bushes. He was dressed in overalls, no shirt, and he looked engagingly young, absorbed in his task, concentrating on clipping out the leaves and twigs to shape it. Duncan indulged himself by watching him for a few minutes. He looked so serene, Duncan thought wistfully. He wondered if he would be so sanguine about the loss of his Immortality.

Realising it was rude to spy on his host, he cleared his throat. Methos looked up and smiled. "Oh, hi, Mac. Did you sleep well?"

"Not really. So you're the gardener?"

"Guilty as charged. Was the bed not comfortable?" Methos stood up and dusted off his knees, stuffing his secateurs into his back pocket. Duncan noted the small scars on his hands, which would never have been there before. Methos saw where his eyes had drifted. "Mac, it's not a tragedy, or a disease."

"It wasn't that - it was other things."

Methos gazed at him assessingly, then nodded. "Okay. Why don't you come to breakfast?"

They walked together down the cloisters, the bird song ringing round the stone corridors. "It's so peaceful here," Duncan said.

"Yes. It makes me wonder why I spent so long in Paris, really. I have no desire to return."

They entered the dining room and Methos washed his hands up before rummaging around in the fridge. "Toast?" he asked. "No cereal except muesli - here, grind the coffee will you?" He tossed the bag of beans to Duncan and hauled out orange juice, milk and bread. It felt more domestic than his life with Andrew - he never ate breakfast, and was rarely out of bed before Duncan left the house in the morning. He missed that, he realised. He'd enjoyed his cosy breakfasts with Tessa, the way she would rest her feet in his lap as she drank her coffee. And Methos, when he had stayed on the barge or in the loft, had also joined him more often than not for the morning meal.

"You look pensive," Methos said, depositing the comestibles on the table. "What's up?"

"Just thinking how much I miss breakfasts with you."

Methos stopped and stared. "Oh," he said finally, then looked away. Duncan felt he had crossed some invisible line - but he may as well be hung for a sheep, he thought.

"Methos, why _did_ you stay in Paris when you had all this?"

The old man was still not looking at him, cutting bread and popping it in the toaster, pouring out juice. But eventually he ran out of avoidance measures, and found Duncan still waiting patiently for an answer. He sighed. "Mac - why? It's all in the past."

"You wanted to know what was keeping me awake last night - well, this was it. And you did say we would talk today."

"Bloody anally retentive Scots," Methos muttered, spreading a little butter on his toast and pouring his coffee.

"I'm still waiting for a straight answer, Methos."

The butter knife clattered down. "Boy, I didn't miss _this_. Okay, MacLeod - I stayed for you. I'm so pathetic and lonely that I stayed in a city I was sick of just so I could have your company and Joe's. Enough for you?" The hazel eyes stared at him with raw challenge, defying Duncan to make fun or to deride what he had said.

Duncan was in fact struck dumb. Their turbulent friendship had never seemed to him to be very attractive for the older Immortal, and there were plenty of silences and estrangements - and yet Methos had, despite this, kept coming back. And here Duncan had thought the need was all one-sided. "It's very flattering," was all he could come up with.

"Yeah, well, I got over it."

Dim lights were beginning to illuminate the mystery, and Duncan ruminated on it as he ate his breakfast in silence. Methos seemed totally absorbed in mastication and certainly wasn't about to restart the stalled conversation. "It wasn't O'Rourke?"

No answer, just a brief glare. Had he thought Methos serene? The peaceful mood had gone - but he was still here. That was a good sign. "It was Amanda and O'Rourke?" Duncan mused aloud.

"A terrier with a rat has got nothing on you, Mac," Methos finally blurted. "This is so unimportant. Ancient history, in fact."

"And I thought you were the one who was interested in historical accuracy. Okay, I give up."

"Good."

"No, I give up and am expecting you to explain. What did Amanda have to do with you leaving Paris?"

Methos stood up and dumped his dirty plates in the sink with an angry crash. "No! Bugger it, Mac - I've spent years sorting my head out and I'm not going back over all that again. It's over, a dead issue. Now unless you want to travel back to Seacouver on your own, drop it!"

Angry spots of colour appeared in Methos' thin cheeks. Duncan realised that the old man was completely serious, and that he had pushed him too far. "Okay, okay," he said soothingly. "Calm down. You were the one who mentioned it."

"Yes, I know," Methos replied curtly. "I'm sorry. Have some more coffee. Would you like a guided tour afterwards?" The conciliatory tone was clearly forced, but Duncan replied to the intent not the result.

"Yes, thanks. Coffee, tour, both would be good."

Methos' hands were actually trembling as he poured out the brew, and his lips were compressed to invisibility. Duncan reached to touch Methos in reassurance but to his astonishment, the man reared back as if he'd been bitten. "Uh ... look, I'd like to change my clothes. Drink your coffee, I'll be back in a few minutes." Then he fled, leaving Duncan to look at his hand to see if he had jam on it - anything to explain the strange reaction.

Skittish Methos was yet another alien creature to him - was this a side-effect of Methos losing his Immortality? The more Duncan thought about it, the more he wondered if this was not in fact the explanation - that Methos wasn't as accepting of his fate as he made out he was. But he still didn't understand where Amanda fitted in.

I really do give up, Duncan thought. I never did understand Methos, and I guess I won't be starting to now. The important thing was getting him back to Seacouver, and the threat Methos had made was very real. Duncan sipped his coffee slowly, and by the time Methos appeared dressed in jeans and a dark shirt, he was ready to just accept the man in the here and now and forget the past. For the moment, anyway. Methos had likewise calmed down, and greeted him with a bright smile.

"All done? Come on then."

Methos led him out the back of the abbey - "I'll show you around inside later, but I thought we may as well climb the hill while it's still cool."

The hill was limestone, and covered with scrubby trees. By the state of the path, Duncan could tell someone - most likely his host - used it regularly. It was a steep climb and not for the foolhardy - here and there, iron rings had been hammered in the rock to be used as handholds. "Hope this is worth it, " Duncan grumbled. Methos turned back to grin at him.

"Oh yes. Not far now."

Breathing hard despite his consummate fitness, Duncan reached the top a few minutes later and collapsed on his back next to Methos, who hardly seemed out of breath at all. "You do this a lot?"

"Every day, just about. And there's the reason." He swept his hand out towards the vista, and following it with his eyes, Duncan almost gasped. Below him, a river snaked in jewel-like beauty, small woods and farms dotting the picture book landscape, the early morning sun glinting off ponds and the residual dew.

"My God," Duncan breathed. "It's wonderful."

"It sure is. And a lot of it is mine."

"You're kidding!"

"Nope. You're looking at the biggest landowner in the district - I bought it when I bought the abbey."

"You're an old fraud, you know that? All that mooching as Adam Pierson."

"How do you think I could afford all this?" Methos said calmly, grinning infuriatingly.

"I read Les Fontaines was destroyed during the war - the Nazis?"

"No, the Allies. The Germans used it as quarters during the war, the Allies blew a lot of it up. It was not much more than a pile of rubble when I bought it - a few walls, nothing more. I rebuilt more or less from scratch."

"So you could have built anything, but you chose to rebuild it in the original style?"

"Sure - what's the point of owning an abbey if you can't live in one? Besides, the style suits the climate and my needs, there was no need to change it. I've added a few modern accessories as you will have noticed. Why, do you think I should have hired Richard Rogers to build some horrible glass monstrosity here?"

"Good God, no! No, I think what you've done is wonderful - I just didn't think you had that sort of respect for old buildings."

"And what would you know about that, MacLeod?"

Regretfully, Duncan noted the acerbic tone and worked to restore harmony. "I wouldn't - I mean, it's not something we ever talked about. But I'm glad to see you feel the way I do about these things."

"About this, yes. I can't say I always agree with keeping old buildings as they were. I'm not sentimental like you."

Duncan could have snapped back with Methos' own words, since the old man had as little idea of his views as Duncan had on Methos', but he was anxious not to start a fight with him. "Do you manage it yourself? The estate, I mean."

"No, I have a chap in the village who does that. He's Angelique's significant other, actually."

"Ah." Duncan didn't have anything he could say to that.

"This business with Andrew is no good, is it," Methos said, responding to what Duncan hadn't said.

"No. I hadn't really had a chance to step back and look at it until I flew to the States, but we can't go on like this. I just wonder what the hell I have to do to have a successful relationship."

"You and Tessa were happy - her death wasn't your fault. If she hadn't died, you'd still be together, from what you've told me."

"Are you sure, Methos? Wouldn't the Game have torn us apart by now? Wouldn't she have resented not having children, me not getting older?"

"I can't answer that, Mac. All that you've ever said to me about her tells me she was your soul mate. That doesn't in itself prevent problems."

"But it helps. Andrew and me ... I thought we were close, but lately ... I've realised we don't know each other at all. You and I are better friends than Andrew is to me."

Methos fiddled with a blade of grass and didn't respond. "Are we still friends, Methos?" Duncan asked gently. "Did I get that wrong too?"

"No, Mac, you didn't. But sometimes ... well, sometimes, friendships outlive their usefulness."

"I don't have friends to be 'useful', Methos," Duncan said gruffly.

"Neither do I," Methos said evenly. "All I was saying ... oh fuck, I don't know what I was saying. People change, circumstances change. I don't dislike you, Mac - I might have just wanted to be alone for a while."

"I missed you - I didn't realise how much until Joe got sick and there was no one I could talk to about it. Andrew ... he and Joe ... Joe never liked him much."

"And let me guess, Joe didn't hide his feelings?"

"No, he was pretty diplomatic, but Andrew's not stupid."

"Something must have drawn you to him - I mean, for you to take up with a guy, there must have been a pretty big attraction."

Duncan knew that Methos was asking for more, and decided that openness might elicit more of the same. "He's not the first man I've slept with, you know."

"But the first long-term lover?"

"Yes. Am I really shocking you?"

Methos laughed, then coughed. "Hardly. Surprising me, I suppose. You just seem the wrong type to take up with another man."

"Not gay enough, you mean?"

"Ooh darling, I don't think so!" Methos camped. "No, I just meant ... um, how can I say this without insulting you... you're such an alpha, Mac. And you don't really like wimpy guys as friends. My guess is that you and Andrew just have too much testosterone sloshing about."

"I was dreaming about us fighting last night - I mean with fists. I don't want it to come to that. I've never struck anyone I've loved."

"Do you love him?"

"I thought I did." Methos didn't say anything, but his expression was kind. "I haven't talked to anyone about this. I feel such a failure," Duncan admitted.

"You aren't, you know. And it takes a big man to admit the possibility of being wrong, of failing. Do you want to fix it?"

"I feel I should, but ... I always felt I was settling for second best."

"Then be done with it, Mac. You can't succeed if you're always looking for something better."

"Is that why you've stayed single?" Duncan belatedly wished he could take the words back. "Look, sorry, that's a bit personal...."

Methos tossed the grass blade away he'd been playing with, but he didn't seem too agitated. "Yes, it is, but then we've been dissecting your love life so I guess it's fair. The answer is yes, that is the reason. I have an ideal and no one I can have fits it."

"Someone like Alexa?"

"No." Duncan glanced sideways at him but Methos didn't look as if he wanted to elaborate.

"Are you lonely, Methos?"

"Sometimes. Not so much now. I'm like Prince Charles, I talk to my plants." He smiled self-deprecatingly at his own joke.

"They seem to be thriving on it. Not everyone finds your conversation boring, then."

"I've always been told I talk a load of crap; I've just found the perfect audience for it." Methos stood up and stretched. "Speaking of plants - ready to go back down and admire all my hard work?"

The slight tension between them seemed to have dissipated, and Methos seemed as relaxed as when Duncan had first encountered him. The day was beginning to be very hot, although it was only nine, and it was time to disappear to the cloistered coolness back at the abbey.

Again Methos led the way - Duncan had to admire the agility he had to have to manage this climb on a daily basis, something he would have preferred to tackle with at least a walking stick. He reached for one of the small saplings to help him down a tricky bit, and his hand ... oh... fuck! He lost his grip and slipped, knocking Methos down.

"Ow! Shit!' Methos yelled and slid further, tumbling helplessly down the incline, grabbing desperately at the bushes. Duncan watched in sick horror as his friend fell, coming to rest on a slightly flatter part of the slope. Once he could see what was happening, he climbed down slowly, carefully after him.

"Methos! Are you all right?!"

Methos groaned. "Yeah," he coughed. "Fuck." Duncan reached him, and made the old man lie still while he checked him out.

"Nothing broken that I can see - can you feel your feet?"

"Yes, and my bloody legs and hands. I'm all right, MacLeod - I won't die of a skinned knee. Why the hell don't you watch where you put those clodhoppers of yours?" Duncan helped him sit up - his hands and jeans were torn up and bloody, but there was no life-threatening injury, it was clear.

"I'm sorry - let me help you down."

Methos grumbled, but fortunately they were close to the bottom of the hill now, and they reached the abbey without too much difficulty. Duncan helped Methos hobble to the kitchen and made him sit. "Now remember I'm not bloody Immortal any more," Methos groused. "Watch what you're damn well doing."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch, old man. I've cleaned more banged-up bodies than you've had hot dinners." He found a glass bowl and filled it with boiled water from the kettle. "Where's the first-aid kit?"

"In the cabinet with the first-aid symbol on it, you great nit!" Pain wasn't doing anything for his temper, Duncan noted.

He found the kit and brought it and the water over to the table, before pouring antiseptic into the bowl so he could wash the damaged skin. "You want to take your jeans off?"

"No, but I'd better. Can you give me a hand?"

The pants were a write-off, and Methos winced as Duncan eased the torn material over badly grazed legs. "What a mess," Methos said with distaste. "You owe me, Mac, you really do."

"I already said I'm sorry. Now shut up so I can clean this. It's going to sting."

"No shit. Get on with it." Duncan played the meek nurse under the steely glare of his injured friend. He had to admit Methos was entitled to his bad mood - his hands were deeply gashed and filthy. His knees and legs were nearly as bad, and it took three bowls of antiseptic-laden water and a wastebasket full of swabs before Duncan was happy that the wounds were clean. As he carefully dressed and wrapped the injuries, he saw Methos had developed a noticeable tremor and had gone pale. Delayed reaction, he guessed.

"Wait a minute," he told him and fetched a glass of juice. "Drink this."

Duncan had to hold it to Methos' mouth, and he now regretted not doing this before. "Are you okay?" he asked. The juice had restored some of the colour to Methos' face.

"It hurts a fair bit," he admitted. "God, what a wuss I am," he said in disgust.

"It's not exactly trivial, Methos. Let me get you a painkiller."

He found the medication in the cabinet and counted it out. The old man accepted the pills gratefully. "It's the worst injury I've had in five years."

"Thanks to me."

"You said it, not me," Methos teased.

"I _said_ I'm sorry," Duncan said, pouting exaggeratedly.

"Only kidding, Mac. Damn - I'll have to change into a pair of shorts. Help me get to my room, will you?"

Methos' bedroom was on the opposite side of the cloisters from Duncan's room, but hardly more lavish than the one Duncan was using. He put Methos on the bed, and the old man stretched out with a groan. "Fuck - this is fun. And we're about to spend hours on a plane."

"I could change the booking if you like."

"What, and tell Joe, sorry, I've got gravel rash, you'll have to get on with dying without me?"

"It's a little more than gravel rash, and he's not that close to dying. At least I hope not."

"You don't know, that's what you're telling me, and I don't want to delay more than we have to. I'll be all right the day after tomorrow. God, I hate this," he groaned. "Can you find me my shorts? In the dresser?"

"Actually, I think you should take it easy, Methos. I don't like the look of you. Is there anything you need to be doing?"

"I can't lounge around here all day, Mac."

"Why the hell not? I can pack for you, and cook. What else is there needing to be done?"

"Nothing. But it's indulgent of me."

Duncan cocked an eyebrow at him. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with the world's oldest, laziest man?"

"Fuck off, MacLeod."

"Ah, that's my boy. Are the pills working?"

"Not yet."

"Well, lie down and wait until it does."

"Bully."

"Wimp."

"Bastard."

"Yeah. Shut up and rest."

Methos harrumphed and curled up. His grimaces as he searched for a comfortable position made Duncan feel guilty all over again. He pulled up a chair near the bed and sat down. Methos opened an eye. "I _don't_ need a nurse, Mac."

"I know. I thought we could talk."

"I thought I was resting."

"You can do that too." He very carefully didn't say anything else, and sure enough, Methos' eyes closed. Duncan was more than a little worried - despite what he'd said to Methos, his medical skills were a trifle out of date and the wounds had been _very_ dirty. Oh, well, he thought, they were visiting a hospital in a couple of days - he could always get a doctor to check things out.

He watched Methos doze, and thought about the conversation earlier. Duncan also had an ideal - of a kind - for a mate, but somehow, he never consciously measured up any possible partner against it. It wasn't even as if Tessa was his natural physical type, apart from being tall, but she had fit together better with him than any woman he had ever known or loved. Amanda, love her dearly though he did, drove him crazy most of the time. Amanda ... God, was that it? Of course - Duncan cursed himself for a fool. That was the explanation! Methos wanted Amanda! And when he had ... on the barge....

Suddenly it all made sense. Methos was carrying a torch for Amanda, but the last time he had seen her, Duncan and she had been swapping spit and declaring their affection for each other. If Methos had been cherishing thoughts of getting together with her ... ah. And that would explain why Methos had felt hostile towards him - hostile enough to leave Paris without a word. All Duncan had to do was explain that he didn't feel Amanda had any tie to him. However, there was another problem - Amanda had since become enamoured of a young Immortal former cop. Duncan hadn't seen her for nearly two years.

But now he had worked this out, he was sure he could smooth things out between himself and the old man, and maybe, if they could find another beautiful, larcenous Immortal ... Methos would give up his self-imposed celibacy. Pity it would take that, Duncan thought, but seeing Methos happy would give him a lot of pleasure. And something else to think about other than his own miserable love life.

He sat, looking at the old man, feeling a deep and pleasant emotion which had been missing for so long in his life - an uncomplicated affection. Yeah, let's call it love, Mac, he told himself. It was easy to forget the change in Methos' state, even with the recent graphic reminder of his mortality - yes, he looked older, thinner, but still ineffably Methos, that maddening, mysterious mix of innocence and cynicism. Five thousand years wrapped up in a thirty year old body, a guy who delighted in silly practical jokes and who could regale his friends with tales of Rome and Greece with the ease of a master storyteller. Oh, God, he had missed the old bastard.

Methos woke up and saw he was being watched. "You stayed the whole time?"

"It was only half an hour, Methos. Feeling any better?"

Methos flexed his hands and yelped. "Um... no."

"Yeah. You don't need me to tell you that you shouldn't use those for a couple of days, Dr Adams."

Methos' eyes widened. "Joe's got a _big_ mouth."

"Hey, you didn't expect him to keep that bit of gossip to himself, did you? Anyway, you're stuck for a day or two - no gardening, that's for sure. Was there anything you had to do there?"

Methos shook his head. "No. I was just tweaking it but it's all low water, low maintenance. But I do have some emails I need to send to my manager."

"Let me type them?"

"Okay, later though. I'd forgotten how things like this take it out of you."

"After five thousand years? I surprised you can even remember stuff like this."

"I can't, actually. I'm going on the experience of my former clients." Methos sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pulled a face. "Crap!"

"Methos, why don't you stay still?" Duncan said reprovingly. "No wonder they say doctors make the worst patients."

"And the fucking cobbler's kids have no fucking shoes. Enough with the folk aphorisms - help me up," he said tersely. Duncan held him as he swayed. "MacLeod, what the hell did you give me?"

"Codeine. It was in the cupboard."

"Oh, bugger, Mac! No wonder I can't keep my eyes open. I thought you were giving me aspirin," he said accusingly.

Duncan belatedly realised his experience of modern medicines left a lot to be desired. "Oops."

He was glad he was Immortal just then - because he was convinced Methos' look could actually kill. "Yeah. Oops. Will you _please_ go away before you do any more damage?!"

Shamefaced, Duncan helped Methos lie down, and with his friend glaring angrily at him, he beat a strategic retreat. The drugs would knock Methos out for at least two or three hours. In the meantime, Duncan could at least find Angelique and tell her what had happened.

He returned to the kitchen, recalling he had left it in something of a shambles, and pressed the button which would summon the housekeeper as he entered the room. He frowned - he had used up most of the sterile dressings, and they would need more. The injuries would need redressing several times before they drove to Lyon. "Mon Dieu!" Angelique exclaimed as she saw the litter of bloodied swabs and dressing packets. "What's happened?!"

"Don't be alarmed, m'selle - Monsieur Parsons has had a minor accident."

"He's hurt? Where is he?" Duncan was surprised at the distress his news had caused.

"He's all right, honest. He's in his room - asleep, Angelique, please don't disturb him," he warned as she looked ready to race off immediately.

"What happened?"

"He slipped on the hill."

"Slipped? He slipped? How? He goes up everyday - he is as surefooted as a goat!"

"Um, it was my fault - I slipped and bumped him ..."

"Your fault," she repeated severely. "And why is he asleep? How badly is he hurt, Monsieur?"

"Not badly - but I gave him codeine and that's ..."

"Codeine!" she exploded. "You ... you ..." The woman glared at him furiously. "You injure him and then you poison him? No wonder he never has visitors!"

"Look - I'm sorry, but it's done. But if you want to help, we will need some more medical supplies. Can they be bought in the village?"

She shouldered him out of the way to look at the denuded first-aid kit. "Oh, what a mess you have made. Go, get out, Monsieur MacLeod. I will organise this." She muttered under her breath and Duncan suspected it was more than a little uncomplimentary to him. "Wait - you can take the list to the doctor's office. I will stay and assist him." She made a quick list on a notepad she pulled from her pocket. "Her name is Doctor Picard, the surgery is off the square. Try not to injure anyone while you are in the village, Monsieur," she added sarcastically.

Duncan fled, glad to escape the steely-eyed virago. He had managed to wreak a considerable amount of havoc in a short time in an apparently normally tranquil home. I can't do anything right any more, he muttered to himself as he descended the stairs and walked the kilometre to the little village he had passed through on his way to the abbey.

The doctor's surgery was tiny, and the doctor herself was the only one in sight. "Bonjour, Monsieur."

"Bonjour. I'm Duncan MacLeod, Doctor - a friend of Monsieur Parsons at Les Fontaines."

"Yes, I know him of course. Is there a problem?"

"He's been injured slightly and I need to pick up some dressings - his housekeeper sent me here." He handed over Angelique's list and the woman clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

"Is he badly hurt, Monsieur MacLeod?"

"Not too bad - just a lot of grazes on his hands and legs. He fell down that steep hill behind the abbey. I've cleaned the wounds out and dressed them, but I wiped out their supplies."

"Perhaps I should come and look - that sort of thing can be nasty."

Duncan could imagine Methos' reaction to him trotting back with a lady doctor at his heels. "I'm sure that's not necessary - I've had medic training and so has he. I'll just need to keep things clean and dry - we're also travelling to America the day after next and I want to make sure he's comfortable for that."

She pushed her glasses back on her nose. "He is leaving? Is something wrong?"

"A mutual friend is very ill."

"Oh. Well, I'll give you the dressings, and some cream you can use for the next two days. I presume you know what to look for - signs of infection and that sort of thing?"

"Yes, I'll keep a close eye on him."

"You make sure you do, Monsieur. Jonathan Parsons is very important to this village. None of us would want to see him harmed in any way."

"Yeah, I got that impression from Angelique - she's pretty mad at me."

"The woman owes her life to him, you know. He delivered her child and has supported them both for twenty years," she said rummaging in her cupboards for the dressings he needed.

"Did he tell you that?" Duncan said. He was surprised Methos had minimised his role in Angelique's story.

"No, she did," the doctor said impatiently. "Here is what you need, and some extras, just in case." She put the packages into a plastic bag for him. "These are non-stick, better for grazes. Is he in pain? Is he taking anything for it?"

"Just codeine."

She glared at him over her glasses. "That's much too strong - I'm surprised he doesn't know that. Aspirin or paracetemol only, Monsieur, and if the pain gets worse, you call me immediately, or take him to a doctor in America. You understand me?" She shoved a couple of packets of paracetemol into the bag as well.

"Yes, of course. Do I owe you anything for all this?"

She gave him an amused look. "No, I don't think so, Monsieur. Please give him my regards, and you must call me if there is any problem. Keep the dressings light, and let the air get to the injuries as much as you can once they stop oozing, yes?"

"Yes. Thank you."

She shooed him out. Outside in the square, he looked at his watch, and realised it was nearly noon - Methos should be waking up and would want lunch. From what he had said, it sounded as if he would appreciate Duncan being the one to make it. He hurried back.

Angelique scowled at him as she opened the gate to him. "Is he awake?" he asked.

"Oui, monsieur. He wishes to see you." She took the bag from him and sent him off to Methos' room. He found the old man sitting up with a pile of papers and files next to him.

"Oh, there you are. I thought you were going to help me send some emails," Methos said grumpily.

"Angelique sent me down to the village. Anyway, I thought you wanted me out of your hair."

Methos grinned ruefully. "Sorry, Mac. I'm not good dealing with injury. For my sins, I had to listen to Madam rant for twenty minutes about your iniquities and she threatened to make my lunch, god preserve us. Please save me," he said pitifully, with a smile on his face.

"Huh, it's all you deserve. I got the same from the doctor too - you'd think I'd had a black hat and a twirling moustache, and had tied you to a set of tracks somewhere. What have you _done_ to these people?"

"Nothing," Methos replied innocently. "I'm just the local grandee - Marie's just grateful because I help keep her surgery going. Purely selfish, I assure you - the village survives, it's easier for me."

"Uh huh - and saving Angelique's life?"

Methos looked shamefaced. "I didn't - not intentionally. All I did was yell 'oy' when I saw this thug beating up a girl, and got shot and robbed for my pains. Angelique sees things differently." He shrugged.

"But you delivered her baby."

"No wonder you were gone so long," Methos said sourly. "Is there any gossip you missed out on? It's simple - Angelique went into labour late one night, her water broke, it was a very fast delivery, very straightforward. Trust me, if there had been any problems, I'd have hauled Marie Picard's arse up here quick and lively. We're short on heroes in this neck of the woods - no Duncan MacLeods of the clan MacLeod around to be the real thing, they settle for me."

Duncan snorted with disbelief. "I suppose you still want lunch - how do you feel?"

"Better - not shaking any more. You got more dressings?"

"Yeah, and some paracetemol and the riot act for feeding you codeine. I'm sorry about that - Tessa used to take it for back pain. I thought it was fairly harmless."

"Sorry about the rant, Mac. It was prescribed for Angelique some time ago - we kept all drugs out of the way while her daughter was small, and up here, and we just continued to do so. I'd forgotten they were there - I took some ages ago and discovered I am really quite sensitive to it. But no harm done - in fact, probably the reverse."

"Well, it was a mistake, but you're not dead, so I'm not going to lose any sleep over it. Food or emails first?"

"Food, then emails. Let's go down to the kitchen before Angelique gets inventive." He started to climb off the bed. "Did you find those shorts?"

"Whoa - I can bring your lunch in here."

"Not on your life, Mac. Angelique sees you bringing a tray in here, she'll have a fit. Anyway, I don't want to stiffen up."

Duncan handed Methos a pair of denim shorts but had to help him step into them. "You shouldn't wear long pants for a while - let the air get to them."

"A nice sight for the airline passengers." There was bruising as well as the grazing, and all in all, Methos' legs looked pretty gruesome.

"Getting vain in your old age?"

"Mais bien sur, monsieur MacLeod," Methos joked. Duncan had to resist reaching out and touching that impish smile. Yes, he had missed the old man.

Duncan collected the papers Methos was working on, and the old man leaned on him as they walked down the cloisters. The kitchen was clear, so they didn't have to fight Methos' housekeeper over the meal arrangements. "Doesn't she use this kitchen?"

"No, she has her own self-contained flat. This place is huge, or hadn't you noticed. Quite a lot of the time, I never see her at all. She always seems to know where I am, though."

"She's very fond of you."

"No need to sound so surprised, MacLeod - I am capable of inspiring more than a sense of deep loathing in people, you know," Methos said sarcastically. Duncan regretted the bitter undercurrent in his word and decided to tackle this one head on. He walked to the table where Methos sat and leaned forward, resting his weight on his hands.

"You inspire much more than deep loathing in me, Methos."

Methos leaned back as if the words could wound him, and his eyes widened in surprise. "Uh ... don't go getting all mushy, Mac - it wasn't meant to be a serious comment."

"Mine was," Duncan said deliberately, then turned back to searching for the lunch makings. He assumed from the total silence behind him that he had managed to shut the old man up for a change, and hoped that he had given him something pleasant to think about.

He made them a salad and sliced up some cheese with crackers. When he brought them over to the table, Methos was sitting quietly, his bandaged hands resting on the table, apparently lost in thought. "Juice or water?" he asked.

"Oh ... water, please." Methos looked pensive, a little sad, not exactly the effect Duncan was hoping for, but he decided not to push. "Have you called the hospital today?"

"Not yet - I usually call around three, to give them time to give him breakfast, let him wake up properly. Of course, I'm always hoping that he'll be in the operating theatre, getting that new heart - but I'm scared too."

"It's a hell of a thing, Mac. I wish he wasn't so fucking stubborn - he could live to be at least ninety with an artificial heart."

"It would never be long enough for me," Duncan said, and then wished he had not, because it reminded him of the other loss that faced him.

"It never is," Methos said gently. "But what a lucky man he is - we are - that we will have you to remember us."

"I don't want to remember you, dammit! I want you to live!" he shouted, throwing the tea towel down he was wiping away crumbs with. "It's no fair."

"None of it's fair, Duncan. You of all people know that. And there is no doubt in my mind which of us, Joe or me, has the greater entitlement to Immortality. He's much more worthy than me - but I don't get to choose, and neither do you."

"You're worthy, Methos. You're not evil or selfish." He sat down at the table and looked at Methos

"I'm both, but I talk a good game," he said, smiling slightly. "Mac, I am not going to spend the rest of the time left to me - the many, many years left to me - thinking about death. I've lived my whole life afraid of dying, and now, for the first time, I feel I can let that go. You know why? Because it's out of my hands - before, I could control if I lived or died, so I was determined not to let it happen. Now I can't, and I can just relax and enjoy the ride."

Duncan took one of Methos' injured hands gently in his own. "It's not just the dying - it's this, Methos. Injury, illness ... what if you get Alzheimer's?"

"Then before it gets too bad, I'll call my good friend the Highlander and ask him to come and do the merciful thing."

"No!" A sudden vision rose in his mind of him holding a sword over Methos' head, sweeping down, and his gut almost turned inside out in revulsion at the idea.

"Mac," Methos winced. "That's hurting me.

Duncan looked down at his hand clenching the bandaged one of his friend, but he couldn't let go. His vision got blurry, his face hot and the next thing he knew Methos had his arm around him, patting his shoulder as a few hot tears escaped his tight control. All the worry of the past few weeks over Joe, all the pain and arguments with Andrew - and now, what had happened to Methos - hit him and he couldn't stop shaking. Methos never said a word, just stroked his back gently, and held him. When the strange fit ended, he left his head where it was - it felt good there, and Methos wasn't complaining, so he took shameless advantage.

"Well, that's been a long time coming, hasn't it, Duncan," Methos murmured, still patting him. "I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. I'd never ask that of you or anyone."

"No, I'm sorry. It's just ... I can't ...I'm sorry," he said again lamely, not really able to be coherent.

"Don't be."

They sat like that for much longer than Duncan would have thought Methos would ever have permitted, but it was the old man who finally pushed them apart gently.

"Reluctant as I am to interrupt all this male bonding, we should eat that salad you made before it gets warm," he said lightly.

Duncan sat up and wiped his eyes, then stood so he could go and splash water on his face. He felt foolish, but he also felt better. He cleared his throat - "I thought I would mix up some fruit and yoghurt for dessert."

"Good idea - it needs finishing off before we leave."

Now they were back to the safe topic of food and their travel arrangements - solid, non-threatening subjects. But as he chopped bananas and melon, stirred in some dried dates, and left the lot in the fridge to marinade in the yoghurt, Duncan felt a warm thrill through him - as if an empty place, a gouge out of his heart, had somehow been filled. He found himself smiling as he served up and ate the meal, and Methos looked happier too. They didn't talk about it as they ate.

 

* * *

I keep a surreptitious eye on Mac as we eat - Christ, I knew the man was wound up tight, but his falling apart like that shocked the hell out of me. I wonder just how long he's been holding it all inside. He said he hadn't been able to talk to his lover about Joe - was he able to talk to the man about anything at all, if he hadn't even told him about his Immortality? I mean, my instincts are always don't ask, don't tell, but MacLeod is one of nature's Boy Scouts, honest, upright and helpful. Wasted on that prick by the sound of it - ooh, Methos, old man, was that bitchy of you, or what?

Don't care - I've hated the man ever since I knew he was making Duncan unhappy. Mac has had an utterly appalling few years, not helped by yours truly. Talk about your self-centred bastards - all I could think about after O'Rourke and Mac gathering his little clan together afterwards was how much my feelings were offended, and I never saw that the Highlander was only hanging onto his sanity with his fingernails. No wonder he fell straight into the first pair of strong warm arms that opened up to him - and if I hadn't been so blind, so sure Mac was one hundred percent hetero, those arms would have been _mine_. Okay, so they would still have been mortal arms, but at least he wouldn't have had to hide so much that was important to him.

I claim to love this guy - well, Methos, prove it. Love him. Look after him. Letting him cry was the first step. "Been up to your island recently?" I ask casually as he clears up. It's a major pain in the bum that my hands are messed up - I still can't get over how much they hurt. Still, silver linings and all that - MacLeod is always happiest when he's doing the looking after and I don't mind playing up to that.

"Not this year. Andrew doesn't like that sort of thing." Creep, I say to the absent and unlamented Andrew.

"You know, taking a holiday would be a good idea for you - just because you can't die of stress, doesn't mean you don't suffer because of it."

He sits down and rubs his face - he does look tired, and I remember he said he hadn't slept well. "I'm beginning to think being Immortal means never being able to relax or take a break. Everywhere I go, no matter how nice, how peaceful, there's always the risk of some moron saying 'there can be only one' and then there's the fucking Quickening and a homicide to hide." He closes his eyes and all I want to do is hug the big sod, take away that pain.

"That's why the island is important."

"The arguments aren't worth it, trust me." He looks at my kitchen wistfully. "It's so nice here."

"Then stay - come back when ... well, whatever happens with Joe. Stay with me for as long as you want. Mac, you need the break." Especially if Joe dies, is what I don't say.

He looks a little stunned. "I thought you didn't allow visitors."

"Flexibility is my middle name, Mac. Besides, it's not like we're cheek by jowl here, and you aren't exactly a stranger. Call it repayment from Monsieur Pierson."

He smiles at that, but then the clouds descend. They always do with the Highlander. "What about Andrew?"

This needs more tact than I naturally feel. "I think," I say slowly, "that a holiday from him might be what you need as well."

To my relief, he just nods. "Yeah. A lousy thing to say about your own partner. But maybe if I could just ... dunno, _think_ for a while, we might be able to sort out what's wrong with us."

No! I want to yell - that's not the idea. But that's being selfish, and if Mac would really be happier with this idiot, then who am I to argue? Besides, my gut tells me that the more time he has to think, the more he'll come to realise that the relationship is clearly going nowhere. He's halfway to thinking that anyway.

Time to let him think about my invitation. I really do have business to attend to and it will provide a useful distraction for Mac to help me. "Come help a poor crippled old man write to his underlings?"

"Crippled and old you might be, Methos, but no way on this earth are you poor," he says with a grin. He has such a nice grin.

I realise that Duncan MacLeod is the only Immortal I would ever let see my financial dealings - he is absolutely the one person I know who would never use that information against me. Still, it feels a little strange to have him reading my private emails and looking at my letters, but there isn't another way I can get my work done. Note to me - buy some of that voice dictation software and get good on it, arthritis comes to us all. "By the way, if you'll give me your bank details, I'll transfer the cost of the airfare into your account," I say. Wait for it ....

"It's on me, Methos," he says, shocked. "I asked you."

"And Joe's my friend too. Look, give it to charity - but I've got more money than I'll ever need, and you need to save up for your old age. Besides, you'd better have booked first class tickets if you don't want me crapping at you all the way across the Atlantic, and they don't come cheap."

"No, I didn't dare risk that," he says dryly. "Okay, here." He writes out the information, and I put a call into my bank in Lyon, and sort it out. After that, we spend a peaceful couple of hours, me dictating emails, him typing (surprisingly fast, but then doing things well comes naturally to him), and telling about my property and its management. I half wonder why - am I lining him up to take over from me? My tenants could do worse. Angelique and her daughter will be well-provided for and wouldn't want the burden of it, and I have more than enough funds to do the small favours for friends and their families that I want to. I never thought I'd have the problem of disposing of my assets - it's fun, in a sick sort of way.

After I finish explaining some otiose piece of EU agrobureaucracy to him, he looks at me in amused astonishment. "What?" I ask.

"Methos the country squire takes some getting used to."

"Makes a change from raping and pillaging - the peaceful acquisition of wealth wasn't something I could ever convince Kronos was worth doing." I realise this is risky, mentioning the nasty 'K' word, but he merely grimaces.

"Yeah, well, I thought he was basically a fool."

"Not a fool, exactly - rigid and psychopathic."

"You did the right thing, Methos. Leaving him, changing your ways. I realised afterwards that it had taken a lot of guts."

Praise? Praise from Mac over the _Horsemen_? "Thanks," I say faintly. He shrugs.

I don't want to start any deep and meaningful discussions now. "We're done here - what would you like to do?" I ask, shutting the last file. Mac's just called the hospital in Seacouver - no change, no drama. Another day's reprieve for our friend.

"What do you usually do now?" he asks. It is only just before three o'clock.

"Sleep, actually. But I had my siesta early today. Tell you what, why don't you uncork the rest of that Burgundy and bring it out under my tree - it's really quite cool out there. Bring a glass for me too. I'll meet you there." What the hell - a glass of red won't kill me. I swore off the booze when it looked like I would drink myself to death if I didn't change the habits I'd acquired as an Immortal, but I'm not fanatical about it.

He raises an eyebrow but leaves to get the wine. I lever myself up - ouch, ouch, ouch. I'm going to have some nasty scars from this - and you know, I don't mind a bit? Something about the way all the things I've done, been through, not leaving the slightest mark on me has always struck me as faintly obscene. On the other hand, if the Horsemen had left scars ... ooh, we'd be frightening the horses with those.

I limp out into the cloisters - it is really hot, and I remind myself to set the trickle watering system on timer before we leave. I've become very fond of each and every one of my precious plants, and to come home and find them dead for the lack of a little water would be painful. Not that I would say anything of the sort to MacLeod - it seems pretty trivial set against what's happening to Joe. But then I never claimed to be deep.

He comes out bearing two glasses and the bottle and settles easily on the oak bench. I refrain from telling him I made it myself - he's had enough illusions shattered today. He pours the wine out. "Since this is such an honour, maybe we should drink to something?" he says, handing me my drink.

"How about to Joe and the new heart I know he's going to get any day now."

"Oh yes, amen to that." We touch glasses, and in my own heart, at least, I pray hard to all the gods I've ever believed in that Joe does get that precious organ.

We drink in companionable silence. My tree is a well of peace and coolness in the blistering heat of the garden. Even the birds are too hot to sing. Duncan yawns. "Maybe you should have my siesta instead," I say pacifically.

"Sleeping in the afternoon is for old men and cats."

I sip my wine. "I rest my case."

He laughs. "I'm too lazy to move - it is lovely here. It seems such a long time since I just ... sat."

My heart contracts with sympathy. Duncan, Duncan ... "Mac, if there's one thing this whole ... becoming mortal thing ... has taught me, is that you've _got_ to stop and smell the roses. Mortal or Immortal, you can't guarantee there will be time later."

"Tessa used to say the same thing." Mac looked at his glass, and I give into my baser impulse and put my hand on his shoulder.

"Duncan, you have a day and a half before you need to enter the fray again. Stop, and smell my roses. Ready yourself for the battles you are bound to face, Highlander."

He smiled a little sadly. "I'm tired, Methos."

"Yes, you are."

"What do I do?"

"Lie down and rest."

"Here?"

"Here. Put your head in my lap, which I _think_ is the only part of my anatomy that isn't bandaged, bruised or bleeding, and sleep. Or go back to your bedroom if you'd feel happier."

"Here?" he said again, softly.

"Yes," I answer just as quietly. I take his glass and put it and mine down. I pat my thigh in invitation.

I know he's wondering what I'm up to, but right at this very minute, my motive is a simple one. He's a brave man - he swings his long legs up, and with no further ceremony lies down, puts his head where I indicated and closes his eyes. I swear he's out like a light in three seconds. The level of trust he is displaying takes my breath away - even though I may no longer be Immortal, his Quickening would solve that problem straightaway. And he knows it. More than that - how secure is the man in his sexuality that he isn't even slightly threatened by my offer?

I don't care - I resist temptation only enough not to kiss him, but I do stroke his hair which has grown long again, with the tips of my fingers, about the only part of my hands presently not wrapped in gauze.

He sleeps deeply, but not entirely peacefully - I know the dreams he told me about will be tearing at him. For a man so used to violence, he is not essentially a violent man - if he really fears his relationship will come to that with this blasted artist, he really needs to get out now.

We sit like that for three hours, and my non-Immortal butt is completely numb. My non-Immortal mind is unreasonably content at the fact that Mac has a little smile on his face. He snuffles and rolls over - I grab at him to stop him falling off and yell involuntarily as I forget about my hands. His eyes snap open but he doesn't say anything - or even move.

"Sleep well?" I finally ask, somewhat unnerved by his scrutiny.

"Yeah." If anything, he looks as if he is settling down for another nap. His hand curls around my knee. "Nice lap," he mumbles.

"Mac?"

"You're really comfortable," he says dreamily.

"Actually, I'm not."

He snuggles against my leg. "No, you are." I am getting a little worried and am just about to protest when he rolls over, looks up at me and grins. "Had you going, didn't I?"

I smack his head. "You ungrateful son of a bitch."

He sits up, still smiling. "Son of a bitch, maybe. Not ungrateful. Thanks, Methos. I think I really needed that."

He yawns again, but it's just residual sleepiness. "I could do with a work out, or a run."

"I don't think you've got the hang of this whole rest and relaxation gig yet, MacLeod."

"No, I do get it. But working out is how I wind down."

"By pumping up the adrenaline and testosterone," I say sarcastically.

"Don't forget those yummy endorphins."

"Silly me, how could I do that?"

He touched my shoulder. "Compromise? Half an hour run, come back and fix your bandages?"

I clutch my breast dramatically. "Oooh, be still my beating heart. How will I stand the excitement?"

"Piss off. Keep this up and I'll make you eat Angelique's cooking."

"This is how you show your gratitude, huh? Threatening me? Go on, you Neanderthal. I can cope."

I watch him walk off - only gods know where he'll find a place to run, but I wouldn't put it past him to pound up and down the bloody hill. I have more mundane concerns. A shower, stripping off all the mummy wrappings. Yuck. Downside of mortality. _And_ another problem - I could really do with jerking off, but my pitiful love life, such as it is, has been defeated by a few bits of sharp rock. Oh well.

Putting on my boxers is sufficient exertion to start everything bleeding again so I give it up as a bad job and wait for Mac to come back. I'm really not looking forward to the flight to the States, first class or not - I'll be as stiff as hell in more ways than one before we get there.

Mac is gone nearly an hour, and I'm dozing again when he knocks. "It's open," I call. He bounds in, carrying dressing packets and reeking of manliness.

"You're all clean." He's surprised that I've washed myself and taken off the bandages on my own.

"And you're not. Pooh." I wave my hand under my nose.

He grins. "Can I use your shower?"

On the tip of my tongue is the question as to why he can't walk fifty yards to his own room, but there's a slight dare in his eyes. "Sure," I say casually. "Bathrobe's on the back of the door."

I half expect him to start stripping before he gets inside the bathroom, since he seems to think we're in some sort of locker room, but modesty is preserved. My imagination gets a better working out than his legs have just done, thinking of him all slick and slippery and how I'd like to ... down, boy.

No question of dozing with temptation just feet away, even if it's all theoretical. I will my annoying erection away - no atheists in foxholes, and no secrets when you're lying on a bed in thin cotton boxers.

He emerges in a cloud of steam wearing my bathrobe, and I'm actually jealous of a piece of towelling cloth - pathetic, isn't it. He dries his hair and hangs the towel up on a hook. "Right - let's be having you."

Oh, god, yes! Methos, you are truly sad. He doesn't notice, instead turning his attention to my legs. He spreads the antibiotic cream Marie Picard gave him over the ugly grazes, and carefully tapes the dressings over them so the sheets don't rub. I'm mesmerised by the care he is bestowing - his big hands move so gently, with such precision, and yet I know from personal experience how powerful they are. He picks up one of my injured paws, and examines it minutely. "Do they look all right?" I say finally.

"I just want to make sure all the dirt is gone." He turns my hand carefully, spreading the fingers and looking closely. His breath is tickling my skin. What will he do if he finds something, I wonder? Lick it out? My dick quivers a little at the idea. Yes, I am a sick bastard, why do you ask?

My reverie is disturbed when he says, "I did some thinking while I was running."

"Uh huh." My fascination with what he's doing continues unabated."I thought I'd figured it out. The Amanda thing." I go to pull my hand away. "Shhh, Methos," he says soothingly.

I stare at him in astonishment. Did he just tell me to 'shhh'? He ignores my indignation. "I figured you had this crush on her. That's why you were mad about the O'Rourke thing."

"I what?" I say in disbelief.

"Yeah, that's what I worked out just now." He doesn't continue, and damned if I'm digging him out of the hole. He finishes with my left hand and smears the cream on the palm, covers it with a clean dressing. I offer him the other hand and he repeats the torturously slow exam. Does he have _any_ idea what he's doing to me? If he looks down, he will - I'm as hard as stone. But he doesn't. "Don't you want to know what else I worked out?"

"Huh?" I say intelligently.

"The other thing I worked out."

"What was that?" In answer, he dresses my right palm, turns over my hand and kisses the back of it. "Mac?"

"Shhh." He cups my chin, and then his lips are on mine. I'm much too astonished to react.

"Duncan?" I whisper. He kisses me again. "Mac, stop."

He moves back slightly. "Did I make a mistake?"

"No ... but what about Andrew?" I don't care about fucking Andrew - but if Duncan fucks _me_ without thinking, he will regret it, I'm sure.

"I haven't forgotten him. It doesn't stop me loving you." He kisses me, sucking my lower lip tenderly, touching my tongue with his.

"Since when?" I ask, my brain short-circuiting.

"Since forever, Methos. Tell me you want me."

"No."

"No?" He moves back again, and his brow is wrinkled.

"No - want is not strong enough a word." I use my undamaged fingertips to draw him close again. "There are no words powerful enough for how I feel. I love you reduplicatively. Insanely. Infinitely. Too, too much...." He shuts me up with his mouth applied without argument, meeting no resistance. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't know. I guess I thought you weren't interested."

"I retract any comments I may ever have made about you being bright, Mac. But why now?"

"You told me to smell the roses. Actually, you said to smell _your_ roses, and if that isn't an invitation, I don't know what is," he grins. He slides up the bed and sits beside me so he can rest his head on my shoulder. "I need to finish things with Andrew before .... I owe him that, Methos."

"Yes, I know. We need to see Joe too. Time for us later."

"Methos - why did I wait so long for you?"

"I've always been there, Mac. But maybe I wasn't ready. Maybe ... things had to change." Maybe I had to extract my head out of my butt.

He sighs, settles close. I touch his hair. "I could feel you doing that before, you know," he says. "I wasn't asleep. I was afraid you'd stop and it felt so nice. It was the happiest I've felt in months."

"I want you to be happy, Duncan. That's all I ever wanted - you to be happy and alive."

"And you think I feel any differently about you?" I kiss the top of his head. For the first time in years, I wonder if there is going to be enough time for what I want to do in my life after all.

 

* * *

Duncan never made it back his own room that evening. Instead, he lay next to Methos touching him gently, watching the dying sun's light until the room was in total darkness. Even with the unspoken agreement that they were not completely free to follow their hearts, their common need meant they could not bear to be apart. At some point, Duncan's robe was easily shed, and he treasured the gasp of admiration forced involuntarily from Methos' parted lips. He relished too the way the old man's breath caught as Duncan gentled the boxers down over slim, powerful legs, exposing a feast for the eyes. He wanted to nuzzle in what was revealed, he wanted to bury his face in those dark curls and lick that beautiful cock, but he respected Methos' scruples on his behalf. So his eyes did what his hands and mouth ached to do and roved lingeringly over each square centimetre, imprinting it on his mind and his heart.

There was no embargo on kissing, or stroking, or letting powerful limbs and bodies lie so close one might think the lovers were trying to get inside each other's skins. "I'm so hungry for you," Duncan murmured. "I've waited so long, wanted you for so long. I knew you were beautiful ...." Methos snorted in the most inelegant way. "Hush, you peasant. You obviously have no appreciation of art."

"And am I by Dali or Picasso?"

"Leonardo, of course."

"Carravaggio, maybe. You're the David. But I don't think you need me to feed your ego over your looks."

"Please don't. Love me for my mind, Methos."

Methos looked unexpectedly serious in response to his joke. "No, Duncan - I can't just love your mind, unless you let me love that heart of yours as well, and your courage."

"Not brave enough to tell you how I felt."

"At least you didn't try and drink yourself to death over it on a regular basis." The sadness in Methos' eyes was unbearable. Duncan had to kiss him until they smiled again.

"Never again. We'll share the pain now." Duncan didn't need to say over what.

He didn't even attempt to return to his room, and Methos' bed had more than enough space for them both, even allowing for the fact that he could not lie quite as compactly as he might because of the inconvenient injuries. Duncan waited until Methos settled, then curled around him as easily as if they had shared a bed for a decade. "I sometimes used to hug a pillow, pretending it was you," he confessed in a soft voice, speaking against Methos' nape and enjoying the shiver of pleasure this provoked. "The real thing is much better."

"Pillows don't wriggle and snore, Mac," Methos said derisively, but Duncan could hear the tone of delight in his voice.

"Pillows don't love me back, old man. The real thing is much, much better."

They slept peacefully, strangely for Duncan since the first night with a new partner usually was not restful, but Methos was better than a sleeping pill. Bird song greeted him as he woke, and he smiled against ruffled dark hair as he thought about days and weeks and years of waking in just this way, with this man. He stroked gently down the long chest, the firm stomach, until his hand brushed something even firmer, more insistent.

"That's your damn fault, MacLeod," came a baritone mutter as Duncan curled his hand possessively around the long cock. "Thanks to you, there's not a bloody thing I can do about that."

"Och, well, then a little assistance is called for."

"Duncan!" Methos protested softly, but not entirely convincingly.

"It's only first aid," Duncan said innocently, then silenced all comment by slipping down and taking his first taste. Methos thrashed as his tongue licked the head, and Duncan realised that this was almost certainly the first time someone had touched Methos this way in at least five years. Then I'd better do a good job, he told himself.

Methos didn't say a word as he licked, as he sucked, as he worshipped. The soft cries of incoherent pleasure could never be described as words, were more musical than mere grunts. It was like singing, Duncan thought - Methos' sobs and murmurs and voiceless pleas mingling with the calls of the orioles and the thrushes outside the windows. He could feel the Ancient's whole body stiffen, and the bandaged hands claw at the sheets as the hot fluid pulsed across his tongue, and he realised how long Methos had been holding back from him, holding his body and his feelings in check, keeping this gift from him for fear of being spurned. How he had had to watch Duncan hold other people with the affection he craved. Oh, old man, how you must have hated me that night - if only you'd known how much I wanted to say those words to you. I love Amanda, but I was, am in love, lust, desire - need - with you and I can never give you up. Not now.

"Duncan," Methos whispered. Duncan just nuzzled in the crisp hair, not wanting to give up his prize just yet. Methos placed his hands gently on Duncan's shoulders. "Love ...."

He responded to the plea in the voice and kissed his way back up Methos' body before coming to rest on his shoulder. "I'm here," he said softly. "It's all right, Methos."

"Yes, I know," then Methos rolled over him and began to kiss him desperately. Duncan rode the wave of urgent passion, not really understanding what was driving it, but realising that Methos was in the grip of a powerful emotion that shook his whole body. The kisses tasted salty, and the old man's breaths were coming in short gasps as if he were dying of anoxia.

Duncan held on until he sensed a ebbing in the flood, and then exerted a little control. "It's all right," he said again, gentling, stroking the trembling body, holding it close. "It's all right now."

At last the storm ended, and Methos lay quietly on his chest, his breaths still sobbing slightly. Duncan just hugged him close, waiting patiently for some explanation for the tempest. "I'm sorry," Methos murmured finally.

"What happened?" Duncan asked gently.

"Ask me later."

"Okay."

They lay together in stillness, in silence, peace after the storm. Duncan was erect, but he could ignore that, concentrating on the heavy, much wanted warmth in his arms. Methos wasn't content to lie still for long - he was facing the evidence of Duncan's apparent lack of relaxation. "Shall I ....?"

Duncan patted his head soothingly. "No - I like holding you too much."

"If you're sure," Methos yawned, and snuggled in even closer. Duncan hooked the thin blanket up and over them both. He followed the old man into sleep within minutes.

The sun was much higher, and the room beginning to be almost unpleasantly warm. His slight movements caused Methos to wriggle and complain sleepily without really waking up and Duncan smiled indulgently, keeping still to avoid disturbing his lover. It was more than a half hour later before Methos stretched and looked up into Duncan's watching eyes, smiling as he did so. "Still here?"

"Where would I go, Methos? This is where I belong," he answered seriously. Methos bestowed a kiss on his chest, rolled back and winced as something caught. Duncan stripped the sheet and blanket back. He lifted one of the long hands - he was concerned to see blood had seeped through the pad covering the palm. "These need changing."

Methos pulled it away impatiently. "They're okay, Mac. God, I hate this crap."

"You have to take care of them, Methos. Infection is no joke."

"You _are_ talking to a doctor, Mac. At the moment, all that is really bothering me is that you managed to make my brains dribble out my ears earlier and I fell asleep like an unfeeling slob." The frown creasing his forehead was as unwelcome as it was unnecessary. Duncan leaned over him and kissed him.

"One, I won't die from it, two, I don't mind and three, don't think I won't be storing up the debts for when you get better." He gave Methos a more leisurely kiss - the old man sure wasn't lacking in that department, and Duncan was a little breathless when he broke free. "Jesus, Methos - keep that up and your hands won't make it anywhere near me."

"You Scots are sooo easy, MacLeod."

Duncan guided Methos' dark head back to his chest - selfishly, because he loved feeling him being there. "Do you want to tell me now?" He felt the heat of Methos' exhaled sigh on his skin, and the slight new tension in his body. "Don't if you don't want to," he whispered, then he guessed. "Something to do with Alexa?"

"Yes," Methos said simply. "I'm sorry, Mac. It sounds so insulting."

Duncan took a firmer hold on him. "No, you aren't insulting me. But I don't understand."

"The ... the last time ... we made love ... "Methos said hesitantly. "She ... gods, Mac, it's so stupid ..."

"It's okay ... take your time, or leave it if it hurts ...."

"It doesn't ... it's a good memory. She ... she'd never done that before."

"A blow job?"

"Yes ... she said she wanted to try. I tried to talk her out of it, but she insisted. She was so funny. Mac," Methos laughed in a strangled way. "She spent so long faffing about that I lost my erection and then she had to get me up and running again. She was giggling so hard, she kept losing it - me, I mean, out of her mouth," and despite himself, Duncan had to grin at the idea. "It was the worst fucking blowjob I'd ever had ...and it was the sweetest ...until now.... Duncan?" Methos reached up and touched his face in supplication. "It just came back to me, a flashback. I hadn't thought about it in years. Did any of that make sense?"

"I think so."

"Do you mind? I ... don't compare lovers ...."

"She was very special, Methos. You had so little time. I understand." He kissed the top of Methos' head. "You shouldn't have had to wait so long, Methos. I'm sorry."

"Well, as you said, it won't kill me, and you're worth the wait, Mac."

They lay easily together, but soon Duncan could feel the minute twitches and wriggles that meant Methos was forcing himself to lie still even though he wanted to get up. "I could do with breakfast," he admitted, to give them an excuse to move.

"Me too, and a pee. Besides, I haven't introduced you to my other lovers yet." Methos rolled off Duncan and looked at him innocently.

"I'd never have put you down as a phytophile," Duncan said with a grin, guessing instantly what Methos was referring to.

"Oh yes, some of the best sex I've ever had in my life has involved plants."

"Oh, God, do I not need that vision before breakfast. Come on, old man, let's eat."

 

* * *

Despite the grimness of their mission, Duncan couldn't resist giving Methos a silly grin as they sat down in their first-class seats. Their last day at the abbey had been romantic and sweet, and they had sat no further than an inch apart for all but a few minutes the entire day. Duncan had resolutely avoided discussing anything heavy - like Andrew or Joe - and Methos seemed content with this. Instead, he had given Duncan a guided, and very intimate, tour of his wonderful garden. Each flower, every plant, had a story to tell, and Duncan had sat mesmerised, listening to his lover's sonorous voice speaking of travels in the Himalayas as he fingered the rhododendron leaves, telling of a long lost love who loved white roses, of a wife he had in the thirteenth century who physicked their household with herbs and who applied common sense and love to the sick and her husband alike. The plants came from all over the world, chosen for their beauty or their strangeness or their rich scent, woven together in a magical, colourful sea by a loving master.

That evening, Duncan had suggested that he make supper for Methos and Angelique as a peace offering. Methos had dressed in a dinner jacket, and Duncan was carefully groomed. It was amusing to see the tough former street kid who was Methos' housekeeper become flustered and nervous at the collective display of good-looking manhood, and Duncan turned the full force of his charm upon her. It was a completely unequal battle - Angelique melted, and was soon proudly telling him about her daughter, about her achievements and plans. Methos found a delicate way of telling her of the change in his relationship with Duncan, and so besotted had she become with Duncan by then that she gave her blessing without hesitation. Duncan watched Methos' face as Angelique ecstatically greeted the news that her long-time friend and employer was no longer alone, and her joy was mirrored in his expression, touched with a little amusement. Then Methos' eyes met his, and the smile was only for him. How could I have ever missed the love in his eyes all this time, Duncan thought wonderingly.

They had sat in the garden in the balmy, clear evening, looking at the stars. "Have they changed?" Duncan asked, his head in Methos' lap again.

"You can't see so many of them now, but I don't know if they've changed. It's too gradual to notice."

"They'll outlive us all," Duncan murmured.

"Everything, everyone dies, Mac. Stars do. Planets do. Even Immortals."

"But what does it mean?"

"42, of course."

"I knew you were going to say that," Duncan said in mock irritation.

"And I knew you did, that's why I said it. Gods, we've been together for less than a day and we already sound married."

"We always did, Methos. Right from the moment you met me and threw me a beer. Andrew..." He bit his tongue. He'd never felt married to Andrew.

Methos touched his cheek gently. "Yes, I know, Duncan. After we get back. We should go to bed - early start tomorrow and all that."

Duncan swung himself up and took Methos' face in his hands. "I want to make love to you here when we come home." Home? Home was Paris, even Seacouver - wasn't it? But Methos didn't dispute it.

"So long as you don't squash anything," Methos said severely, grinning under the lips Duncan had applied tenderly to his mouth.

"You mad, romantic fool, you."

"Can I help it if I've become all possessive and hausfrau in my old age?"

"You were the one who mentioned sex and plants, Methos."

"Rose petals and such, Duncan dear - not stems and bark and pricks... don't even think about saying it, MacLeod."

Duncan laughed. "Come on."

Even though they had agreed to no more sex, holding Methos was a drug in itself. No stranger to all kinds and shapes of bed partners, Duncan still couldn't quite understand how the old man's angles and sharpness translated to a sensuous bonelessness in bed, nor why his scent, unlike any other man's, could arouse him so quickly. The dark hair was thick and soft, without the tendency to curl that Duncan's own hair had which drove him crazy. There was nothing to stop him playing with it endlessly, or touching the superfine skin of Methos' body.

Nor was he alone in wanting to explore these new delights - Methos' fingertips were everywhere, tracing his face and jaw, tugging each wiry chest hair individually. "Enough," Duncan finally growled. "I'll get no sleep unless you stop that."

"Say uncle," Methos said, laughing at him and tickling a newly discovered sensitive spot.

Duncan wriggled. "Uncle, you bastard." He put a careful arm lock on the other man, and made him settle down. "You just wait," he whispered.

"I can't hardly," his bed mate whispered back.

And now they were on their way. To spare the other passengers and to make sure he was comfortable, Methos had restored the bandages he had left off the day before, and was planning to wear gloves when he met Joe. For now, only light gauze covered the ugly grazes which were nonetheless healing well. More than anything, the happiness in Methos' eyes overcame any changes his new mortality or the recent accident had caused. The last time Duncan had seen Methos smile so openly and for so long ... was when he had first met Alexa, the Highlander realised. And like that relationship, this one was also to be shadowed by illness and possible death.

Duncan shook off the fey sense of impending doom. Taking up with Methos could have no possible impact on Joe's condition, nor on the outcome of his treatment. On the contrary, Duncan felt stronger, better than he had done in weeks, and he was sure that Joe could only benefit from another friend coming to see him - especially when that friend was Methos.

Methos caught his sombre look, and brushed the back of his hand. "We'll be with him soon enough, Duncan."

"Aye, I know. So, are there any movies you want to watch?"

"I'd rather watch you," Methos said softly, and Duncan flushed. He wasn't used to public declarations of desire from his male lovers - Andrew wouldn't even touch his arm when people could see. He found he rather liked it.

The flight arrived in New York at five am, and they were in Seacouver three hours later. Their bodies were telling them it was time for bed, but the day was only beginning. They took a taxi to the dojo, now flourishing under a caretaker manager, and the lift took them up to the loft. "Looks just the same," Methos said lightly, tossing his bag in the corner.

"I spent most of this year in France because of Andrew. But it's good to be back." Methos gave him an unreadable look, but said nothing.

Duncan felt up to visiting the hospital but remembered that he could no longer take Methos' resilience for granted. The old man brushed off his concern irritably, which itself probably indicated his fatigue, but if he was willing to overlook it, Duncan wasn't going to push. They stayed long enough to shower and change into fresh clothes and then Duncan called a taxi - the T-bird was in storage and would be retrieved later on.

As they arrived at the hospital, Methos pulled on the thin gloves he had bought at the airport. He had used hair dye to cover the grey, and apart from his thinness, looked much as Duncan remembered him from Paris. "Ready?" he asked Methos.

"As I'll ever be."

Duncan was paying for top of the line care for Joe, a private room with no restriction on visiting hours. Nonetheless, they had called beforehand to make sure Joe was up to visitors, which he was. Duncan had forgotten how great a difference there was between being able to be visited, and being well, and was shocked all over again at how sunken Joe looked, his colour almost corpse-like behind the oxygen mask. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Methos stiffen and realised that, like him, he was badly shaken by the deterioration in their friend.

Joe was dozing, turned to the wall. Duncan sat at the side of the bed and touched his hand. The steel grey eyes opened. "Hey, Mac," the gravelly voice said, sounding pleased.

"Hey yourself, Joe. I've got a surprise for you."

"For me? You shouldn't have, Mac, you've ...." He stopped as Methos came to his bedside and smiled. Joe stiffened, and his expression hardened, to the obvious confusion of the Ancient. "What the hell is he doing here?" he growled, the hiss of the oxygen adding harshness to his voice.

"Joe, it's me. Methos."

"I know who you are, you old bastard. Why are you here now? Come to dance on my grave? Get the hell out!"

"Joe!" Duncan said, horrified. Methos had gone ghostly pale, his every line as rigid as stone.

"It's all right, MacLeod. I'll see you in the waiting room," Methos said stiffly, then strode out.

Duncan almost shouted for him to return except that he remembered where they were. Instead he turned to his mortal friend. "What's wrong with you, Dawson? He's flown all the way from Europe to see you."

"And he can fly the fuck all the way back, MacLeod. He ran out on us five years ago, and not a damn word since. Where was he? Not there for you, not there for me. I don't need his fucking pity." The exertion of expressing his anger left the bluesman gasping, and the monitor on his failing heart began to ping alarmingly. A nurse came in almost immediately.

"Are you all right, Mr Dawson?" he asked. He looked at Duncan accusingly.

"He's got a little agitated," Duncan admitted.

"I think it might be better if you left for a while, sir," the nurse said, clearly unwilling to annoy the patient's sponsor by ordering him out, but making his displeasure clear nonetheless.

"Yes, okay. I'll be back soon, Joe."

Joe made a dismissive movement with his hand, slicing through the air in a manner unpleasantly reminiscent of a sword cut. Duncan left, angry with himself and with the Watcher, and worried about Methos.

He found Methos as he said, in the waiting room, his hands clenched on his knees and a frighteningly distant look on his face. "Come outside to the garden, we can talk there," Duncan insisted, and eventually Methos gave him a curt nod and followed him.

The little garden was a place where Duncan had often fled while waiting with Joe in the first few days of his hospitalisation, but today there was no peace to be had there. Methos turned on him as soon as they were out of earshot of other people. "You bloody well knew he didn't want to see me. Was this some sort of sick joke, MacLeod?" He refused Duncan's hand which had reached for his shoulder in comfort and stalked away.

"No, of course not. I really thought ... look, he told me a long time ago - years ago, Methos - that he was angry with you. But I knew he missed you too. He's sick and in pain - give him a chance to adjust."

"And you couldn't have warned me? What about letting _me_ adjust, Mac?"

Duncan accepted the rebuke. He walked over to his angry lover and put his hand back on his shoulder. "Yes. You're right, I'm sorry. I didn't think. I had some idea you might refuse to come."

"I wouldn't do that," Methos said reproachfully. "He looks like shit. Much worse than I thought."

"I know. I'd forgotten."

"Damn fool - why won't he take the artificial heart?" His voice was only just this side of shouting.

They'd been over this, so it wasn't a serious question. Duncan could see the sadness behind Methos' anger, and no small amount of fatigue. "Why don't you go on back to the loft? Get some rest."

Methos shook his head. "No. I'd like to try again, and if he still won't see me, then I'll wait for you."

"There's no need ..."

"Mac, you've hauled me thousands of kilometres for this man. If I can't help him, I can at least help you help him, yes?"

Duncan looked at him, silently acknowledging the truth of this. "Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, let me go in on my own. I won't stay if he becomes agitated again. Wait for me here?"

"Of course." Looking around, Duncan saw they were quite alone, so he risked a quick kiss, which raised a tiny smile. "His bark is worse than his bite, remember. And the worst he can do is kill you."

Methos grimaced, but his colour had returned to pale normal. "I'll be back soon."

 

* * *

I don't go directly to Joe's room - I find a men's room so I can wipe my face and calm down. I can't really believe Duncan foresaw the strength of Joe's reaction, but I curse the optimism which made him conceal Joe's anger from me. There's no getting round it - I am shocked as hell, and if Joe had run me through with Mac's sword, he couldn't have hurt me more. Even before he spoke ... gods, I've seen dying people before, even dying lovers, but there is really nothing which makes it easier to bear. I stare at my own reflection - I realise that one day, Duncan may have to see me look like that. Even now ... the dye covers the slight grey at my temples, but the lines around my eyes and mouth look more pronounced with the tiredness which is hitting me like a sledgehammer. Maybe I should go home and rest, but I can't bear that Joe hates me, is angry with me. I have lived such a long time with the hatred of my fellow Immortals, with my enemies, and yet after five years of peace, I find I am unable to cope with the disapproval of one cranky old man.

Joe is still turned to the wall as I walk in, but his monitors show he is awake and not even slightly relaxed, if the readings of his respiration and heart rate are anything to go by. I walk around the bed and sit down. His eyes stay firmly closed, and so I wait. Two, as I have often found, can play this game.

I've had much longer to develop patience than him and so it is he who breaks first. "Thought I told you to leave," he says gruffly.

"So you did, Joe. And so I did, and now I've come back. Tell me you hate me, that you want me to leave, and I promise I'll walk out that door and never return. You'll never see me again, I swear."

I see him open his mouth to order me out, and then his brain kicks in, realising the implications of what I've said. Never is a long time - not as long as he thinks it is, but long enough. "Where were you?" is what he finally says.

"In a place I own near Lyon. When you get well, I'll have you come visit if you like."

"Yeah, right. You know as well as I as I do that won't happen."

"And why is that, Joe?"

"Because they won't find me a heart in time, you moron," he rasps. "You know what the odds are."

"I know the odds would be a lot better if you weren't being such a fucking idiot, Dawson."

His eyes widen in shock at my rudeness. "What would you know about it, Methos? It's not like you'll ever be in my position. It's not like you'll need a tin can inside you just to live. Maybe some of us like having real hearts. Hell, some of us even act like we have one."

Oh, a palpable hit, Joe. "And some of us will be dead and buried and unable to be snide any more for the want of a bit of practicality. You know perfectly well the soul, your 'heart' doesn't reside here," I touch his chest, " but up here." I brush his thick grey hair with my hand, which he notices for the first time.

"What's with the gloves?" The question from a naturally curious person escapes him before he remembers he's supposed to be mad at me.

"I was experimenting with natural dyes, and did a little impromptu pigmentation augmentation."

He works it out. "Bummer."

"Yeah, woad is me." He looks at me in shock again, the joke is so awful and then a reluctant chuckle bubbles up behind the mask.

"Man, that's bad, Methos." He wheezed some more. "I still want to know why you ran out on us."

"I had my reasons, Joe. Some good, some not so good. And I'm sorry. I never thought it would hurt you so much. "

"Boy, for a smart guy, you're real dumb, you know that?" He struggles to sit up a little, which helps his breathing. "Mac nearly went crazy, and I had to put up with all that with no-one to bitch to at all."

I pat his hand. "Poor widdle Joseph." More seriously, "When you get out of here, I'll tell you why."

"I ain't getting out, I told you. Now you're here, I'm glad for Mac's sake. He needs someone to look after him - that guy he's with is a loser."

Much as I am glad to hear my rival is no competition, I refuse to play this game with him. "No, Dawson. I won't be making any deathbed promises. You want someone to look after MacLeod, you get that heart and do it yourself. You die, and they can recycle you for dog food for all I care. Once you're gone, all bets are off."

"You cold-hearted son of a bitch," he curses me. "You Immortals think we mean nothing, don't you. That our lives mean nothing."

"On the contrary, " I say coolly, even though my far from cold heart is beating over fast, "it's because we know how short they are, and how much you do with them, that we value and love you so much. But don't expect tears from us when you're gone, not like this. We lose too many people to cry over those who could save themselves." He stares at me with hate in those wise eyes, and I force myself not to blink.

"You don't know what it's like, to be facing your own death. You didn't even grieve that long for Alexa."

If he weren't ill, I would have struck him to the floor for that. "You have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Joe Dawson, and I'll thank you to keep her out of this or any other conversation," I say in my best Death on a horse voice, and he shrinks back into the pillows. Then I make a decision. I peel the gloves off my hands.

"Methos ...." he says, stunned when he sees the bandages.

"Be quiet, old man, " I order rudely, then begin to undo the gauze covering my left hand. I hold it out to him in all its scabbed, granulating glory. He looks at it, then at me, hardly able to comprehend what I am showing him. "Yes, it is what you think it is, Joe. An injury, days old. Like you, I am now mortal. So don't tell me I don't know what you're facing. I face it too. One day," I sweep my hand around at the room, "this could be me."

"But how?" he whispers.

"I really don't know, except this is the reason I left Paris. It's not important. All that matters is that you stop using the existence of Immortals as an excuse to give up. Do you really think your death will mean less to MacLeod than mine would? Than Richie's did?" Joe flinches at the name which recalls a former grief to him.

"I'm afraid," he says finally, almost to himself.

"Of what?" I ask, genuinely puzzled. He shrugs - he doesn't really know. I realise that this is a phobia deeper than some ideological objection to plastic organs. I recall my medical experience to mind. I've amputated many legs in my past, and hands, but my time was long before heart transplants .... ah.

"Do you still get phantom pain?" I ask.

"In my legs? Yeah, sometimes." He's puzzled.

"But a heart isn't like a leg, Joe," I say gently, finally working out I might be onto to something here. "You won't feel any difference - it won't hurt."

"How do you know?" he bursts out. "I've talked to people, read on the Internet. Some people never get used to having a new heart."

"Some people aren't you, Joseph Dawson. You're the strongest man I've ever known, and trust me, that includes a very, very large number of people. Look at what you've achieved, Joe," I say with some passion. "You've overcome losing your legs, you've built successful businesses on both sides of the Atlantic. You have a respectable music career and reached a high level in the ranks of the Watchers. Don't you tell me a man like that can't get used to another prosthesis he'll never even feel."

I see tears in his eyes. We have reached the heart of the matter, no pun intended. I take his hand carefully in my damaged one. "Joe, Mac is going quietly mad with grief - he collapsed like a burst balloon at my place, he's so upset at being unable to help you. No matter what you think, losing you will be a blow to me too, and I don't think I could ever forgive you for not taking the one sure chance you have. I know it won't be easy - but when did you ever run from a fight?"

"It's my _heart_ , Methos," he says, the misery muffled by the mask but clear nonetheless.

"It's just a lump of fat and muscle, Joe. Trust me on this - there's nothing special about it. What makes you Joe Dawson is inside that thick skull of yours. Losing your legs didn't make you less of a man. And neither will this."

If he'd permit it, I'd hold him, but he is fiercely proud, and would never forgive the liberty. He looks so lost and alone - I realise he couldn't talk to Mac about this, and in a way I can understand. Duncan isn't the first person you think of when you want to admit to a weakness. And yet, as I know, the Highlander is well capable of sensitivity and understanding, if you're prepared to beat it into him with a pointed stick.

I can't resist at least touching his brow - a habit from years of doctoring, and he sees the gesture for what it is. "Why don't you think about it, Joe? Would you like me to send Mac in?"

"No, not now. Are you around for a while?"

"For as long as you need us, Joe. We're at the loft. Should we come by this afternoon?"

"Yeah, I'd like that, Methos." His overly bright eyes look up at me as I stand. "Look, I'm sorry ..."

"No, my friend. I'm the one who's sorry. Rest, Joe, and we'll come back later."

He clutches at my arm. "You can really die?"

"Yes. But like you, I think I've got a good four or five decades left in me, and I intend to enjoy each and every day. So will you, if you've got any sense. Now get some rest or I'll forge an order for an enema on your notes."

"You're such a bastard, Methos," he says, but he's smiling.

"The original, never forget that. Later, Joseph."

I walk out confidently, but retreat to the men's room into a stall so I can shake in privacy. Gods, has it worked? I was never any good at persuading Joe to do anything, but this is one fight I intend not to lose, and not losing fights is something I _am_ good at. I realise I have clenched my injured hands into tight fists, and the unbandaged one is hurting like hell. I unfurl it - yuck, it will need cleaning and rebandaging, and no doubt will get me a lecture from Duncan unless I hide it. Oh, fuck it, why should I bother? I'm mortal, no need to pretend invincibility any more. If the Highlander gets his rocks off nursing me, who am I to deny him? It'll give him something else to think about.

He's waiting patiently in the garden, and turns sad, tired eyes to me. He looked so happy when we set off - what a difference a few hours can make. "Did you make nice? You were gone a while," he asks. I give him a kiss since we are alone, and he smiles.

"Yes, we are all friends again. Mac, I told him," showing him my hand as I sit next to him.

"Why?" His wide brow creases in puzzlement.

"Because he wasn't going to listen to me so long as he thought I had no idea of what he is going through. He's afraid of feeling the heart like an alien presence - the way his legs still hurt even though they aren't there any more."

The concept is strange to a man who has never been ill, and for whom pain is a strictly temporary affair, but he accepts that it is valid, if incomprehensible to him. "So how do we get through to him?"

"We don't - he's got to do it for himself, Duncan. I gave him some stuff to think about, and said we would come back this afternoon."

He puts his arm around me. "And what about you? How are you feeling?" He touches a tiny trace of moisture left on my face - he probably thinks it's a tear but it's only from my face washing.

"Tired. Nothing fatal, Mac."

"Let me get you back to the loft - you can have a nap."

I tug on his hair. _We_ can have a nap, you patronising sod."

"We can, you're right. But _you_ can get that mess sorted too - what did you do to it?"

"Felt up a nurse and caught it on her badge."

"Serves you right then."

Fatigue hits me hard as we reach the loft, and I'm stumbling as we exit the lift. I can't tolerate lack of sleep any better than when I was Immortal, and I always liked a full eight or nine hours then, preferably at night. I know all the ideas about beating jetlag, but MacLeod's big comfortable bed is singing its siren song. Mac just pushes me onto it, and begins undressing me without so much as a by your leave, which I'm too tired to give or refuse. He gets up and I grab his arm. "Where are you going?"

"Calm down, I'm just getting the bandage."

Good as his word, he's back in a minute, and dresses my hand quickly. Then he strips and climbs in beside me. "You have no idea how often I dreamed of having you here."

"Later, MacLeod, unless you're into necrophilia."

He laughs, and snuggles down. But no sooner does he do so than his cell phone rings. He bolts up in alarm - only three people have this number, and one of them is Joe's doctor. It's not the hospital - from his conversation, it's obvious who it is.

"Hi ... yeah, back in Seacouver ... no, no change... I can't leave, Andrew, he needs me ... I didn't mean that, Christ Almighty but the man's dying ... yeah, he's staying here, so what? ... we can talk about this, don't ... Andrew ... Jesus, don't start that ... Andrew?" He stares at the cell phone as if it will explode in his hand. I reach over and push the call termination button, and he turns hurt eyes to me. "He doesn't get it."

"No, " I say carefully. "Mac, you can't deal with him and Joe at the same time."

"He accused me of sleeping with you - and he's right. I've never cheated on a lover before, Methos." Oh, boy - Scottish guilt again.

"Then send him a fax and tell him it's over, or book me a hotel so I can get some sleep," I say bluntly. "But what's done is done, Duncan." I glare at him, but my famed powers of intimidation are dulled today. He continues to stare into space, and my patience, already severely tried, snaps. I jump out of bed, grab my underpants and pull them on.

"Where are you going?"

"Out - you have things to deal with. I'll call you from the hotel. I'll try the Hilton first."

"Methos!"

"MacLeod!" I yell back in the same tone of voice. "Look," I say more reasonably, "if I stay, one of us is going to say something we regret. You've got things to deal with. Give me a call when you're heading back to the hospital, and you can pick me up. We could both do with some peace and quiet."

God, MacLeod could bottle that fucking look of his, but I harden my heart. Maybe he'll call his lover back and break it off, or maybe he'll realise that he's cheating on exactly nothing since the relationship is so clearly over and done with. But I need sleep, and time to think, and I won't get that with a hulking brooding Scot in the bed.

I dress quickly. He doesn't even look at me as I grab my daypack which has a change of clothes in it, and head to the lift, but suddenly I'm grabbed and yanked around, something I don't overly appreciate but I don't get a chance to shout at him, because his face is right _there_ and if I yell, I'll get a mouthful of his nose. "You always bloody run," he hisses at me. "When are you going to learn we do better together than apart?"

"Take your fucking hands off me," I growl, leaning back away.

"No."

I struggle and try and knee him, but he's holding me tightly enough to bruise and the bag I'm holding is hampering me. I drop that but it hits my foot not his. "I'm not into being brutalised, MacLeod," I warn.

"And I'm fucking sick of you avoiding problems, you old fool. Why are you abandoning me at the first sign of a hassle?"

"I ....?" Then my mouth snaps shut, and I realise he has spoken the plain truth. I haven't given him five minutes to think it through, and if I claim I need time to cogitate, why does he need it less than me? "I'm sorry," I mumble.

He lets go. "You should be. Jesus, Methos, don't do this to me. I've had you and Andrew and Joe yelling at me and it's not even noon yet. I usually don't piss this many people off in a week." He gives me a grin, but underneath I can see the worry I missed before, that I would in fact abandon him, run out and leave him with the unholy mess his life has become.

I come closer and put my arms around him, laying my cheek against his. "Sorry," I say again. "Come back to bed - forget everything for a while."

Now his smile is genuine, and he leads me back, undressing me carefully and pushing me down and covering me up with tenderness. Totally unnecessary, utterly sweet, I'm not so great a fool as to interfere with a MacLeod in mother hen mode. Nor do I protest when he wraps me in his arms and hold me tight as if he thinks I will run away, and I've only got myself to blame that he might think that. "I'll call Andrew tomorrow," he says quietly. "It's only fair."

"Mac, leave it. He can wait, so can you."

He tightens his grip briefly. I doubt he realises it, but like him, I have never cheated on a lover or a wife either. Unlike him, I know that God will not damn me forever for doing so. Andrew is going to get hurt not because Mac is in love with me, but because their relationship is built on sand. I refuse to feel guilt over something that is inevitable, and if I have my way, neither will Duncan.

His sleep is troubled, and he wakes me twice with his mumbling and thrashing about. I don't wake him, I only rub his stomach in soothing circles until he quiets. We had an all too brief interlude of peace at my abbey, but Mac was already stressed out when he got there, and he needs more than a day's break to deal with it. Until the separate problems of Joe and Andrew are resolved, there will be trying times ahead for my lover.

He only manages a couple of hours sleep before his restlessness propels him out of bed. Although I am awake, I refuse to get up until I need to. "I'm going to get some food," he calls softly and I grunt. Only after he leaves do I remember that he is no longer on Holy Ground and he could be Challenged even on a simple run to the store. For the first time, I realise that my being out of the Game does nothing to protect him - in fact, it means I can't even intervene as I did once before, with Stephen Keane. The thought is like a lead weight in my stomach. Did Tessa feel like this every time Duncan left her sight? I doubt it - she could never have faced a Challenge for herself, and realised how deadly the danger really was even for a supreme swordsman like Mac. I sit up and clutch my knees to my chest to stop my shaking. This ... fear ... I have felt before, even on his behalf as I did that night when O'Rourke so nearly claimed him, but never this helplessness ... this pitiful weakness ....

Stop it, Methos, I tell myself. If Mac comes back and sees you falling apart, it'll kill him. I unclench my hands, make myself lie down so that when he returns, he will only see the familiar, lazy bastard he knows so well. I manage so perfectly that he doesn't suspect a thing, and smiles at me when he brings a picnic to the bed. I sit up casually, and affect interest in food I have no appetite for. I force myself to eat, only because he will worry, but I feel like puking and hope he puts down any lack of colour in my face to jetlag. I realise that this is my future, if I choose to be with Mac - but can I choose not to? I no longer have unlimited time, and I don't want to be on my deathbed regretting years not spent with the man I love. Equally, I don't want to spend my remaining years grieving. Ah, Methos, how blithely you jumped in, and how much there is to worry about.

Mac sees my distraction, but supposes the wrong reason. "I'm sure Joe'll come around, Methos."

"I hope so, Mac. He doesn't have long, I can see that."

Duncan smiles reassuringly, but out of ignorance - I won't tell him that Joe may only have a week or two, nowhere near as many as Duncan hopes. In a way, Joe's problem allows me to distract myself from worrying about Duncan's participation in the Game, but gods only know how I will feel if we have to deal with Joe's death as well.

He clears up and I dress. It's still incredibly awkward with my hands being bandaged. I can't remember the last time I had an injury that lasted more than a day and I begin to understand why Joe is so short tempered - constant pain, constant disability, however minor, wears down patience and energy. My respect for him goes up by the minute.

Before we go back to the hospital, Duncan wants to pick up his car, so it is five o'clock before we get to see Joe again. He looks both better and worse - more cheerful, but much more tired, so we won't stay long. Only long enough to hear the news we both wanted - he's agreed to the artificial heart. The relief is a physical thing for Mac - the strain he's been carrying in his face almost every second since he came to Les Fontaines is gone. I don't want to dampen his joy, but surviving the surgery tomorrow will be a huge hurdle for Joe, and then there will be a long period when the new heart will be bedded in. But at least the agony of waiting for a donor is over. Joe grasps my arm as I sit next to his bed, and I grin at him. "Good for you, you stubborn bugger," I tell him.

"Yeah, well I figured someone has to hang around and make sure you clowns don't get into more trouble than usual."

"You do that, my friend," I say in all sincerity, before I stand up.

"Mac?" Joe calls.

"Yeah, Joe? Do you need something?"

"Keep him safe, will ya?" I am astonished by the request, but Duncan looks at me with pure love, and I know our sharp-eyed friend has noticed.

"No need to ask, Joe. I'd give up my right arm before I let him come to harm."

I cough dramatically. "So how did he get all banged up, huh?" Joe teases, and Duncan blushes like a girl.

"I, uh, slipped and fell on him," he mumbles.

"You mean you got sick of me and threw me down a hill to stop me bugging you, don't you MacLeod?" I say severely, and it's entirely worth it to see Joe's grin and Duncan's horrified look. "Well, you _did_ throw me down a bloody hill, at least."

"It was an accident!" he says, offended, and then Joe starts to wheeze, laughing feebly.

"Stop it ... you pair are killing me ..." he chortles behind the mask. He settles down. "Mac ... tomorrow ... if things ... you know ..."

Duncan immediately starts to protest and I nudge him to shut up. This is important, I know, and however much Mac doesn't want to hear it, this could literally be the last time he sees Joe. I nudge him again and he sits down. "Joe, I'll be down the hall." I look at Duncan - his eyes are full of sorrow, and I know he is fully aware of what could happen. I smile encouragingly, and slip out and wait in the surprisingly comfortable waiting room. Mac is gone nearly half an hour - longer than I would have thought wise in Joe's condition - and when he comes in, I rise to meet him. His mouth is drawn down in a way I wish I were less familiar with. "Easy, Duncan," I whisper, then draw him over to a seat. I hold his hand, and don't care who can see us.

"Sorry," he finally says. "I just ... this could be it, Methos."

"Yes, it could, Mac," I agree, but gently. "But that's true any time you see him. And they've got very good at this, you know. His chances have improved quite a lot by accepting the heart - the risks are the same or worse for the donated organs."

"I know," he says faintly. He seems to shake himself. "He wants to see you." I start to get up, but he puts his hand on my arm. "No, tomorrow. Before they take him into the surgery - they don't want too many visitors."

"Are you okay with that, Duncan?"

"Methos, you've known him for nearly twenty years. If anyone has the right, you have." I wish I could kiss him - it's kind, generous of him, to remember that when he's got so much grief. "We said ... it's never enough, Methos. But we said ... I told him I loved him like a brother, and no man could be a better friend. All the usual clichéd crap." The downturn of his mouth gets worse.

"I know he wouldn't see it that way, Mac. And clichés can be true. What do you want to do now?"

He shrugs. "What can we do? Go home, wait. I should call Andrew." He doesn't look delighted at the prospect.

"I think that's a monumentally bad idea, you know."

"Maybe so, but I can't keep dodging him." He stands up.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"No - but at least I have you with me."

"Okay - wanna go get drunk, MacLeod?"

We're getting awfully sedate in our old age - the 'binge' consists of two bottles of beer apiece, pizza (and how Mac can stomach the stuff they call pizza in this country, I have no idea), and some Scotch, slowly sipped. He sits leaning against me, not talking much. The attempt to call his boyfriend was unsuccessful, to nobody's regret. I thought he might want to talk about Joe, but he doesn't really say anything - he is content to sit quietly, lost in his own thoughts. I puzzle over what Joe is up to, asking for me and not Mac, and all I can think is that Joe is trying to spare the Highlander in some way. There is no easy way to deal with this.

"You probably have things you should be doing," I say after a half hour's silence. "There's really no point in hanging about at the hospital - we won't hear a thing until he's in recovery."

"I really should look at the books and stuff, I suppose," he says reluctantly. "And we need groceries."

"Good - you keep busy, and I'll go up to the hospital. Maybe we could go out if the weather's good - they can call you wherever you are."

He nods - he really doesn't care what we do tomorrow, I know where his mind will be. More silence, more scotch for him, not for me. "We waste time, don't you think?" he says suddenly.

"Immortals?"

"Yeah. I mean - if I'd put my mind to it, and started a hundred years ago, I could play the piano like a master now. Or paint. Or have discovered a cure for cancer. Look how few of us have any ambitions that way."

"I dunno, Mac - some of us wanted to rule the world. Fortunately, those plans didn't work out." He gives me a sharp look, but I hold my gaze steadily.

"World domination isn't the only thing you could do with Immortality, Methos. But look at us - we collect our toys, make money, acquire property. We live like the mortals do - and the mortals all want to live forever so they can do the things we could do, and don't."

"And what would you do if you could, Mac?"

"Doesn't matter, does it?" he says heavily. "Duncan MacLeod is going to spend the rest of his life fighting other Immortals for the Prize, whatever the hell that is."

"It doesn't have to be like that, Duncan. You could move to Holy Ground, or at least live less conspicuously."

"Live like a coward, you mean."

"No, like me," I say calmly.

He hisses in a breath. "Methos, I didn't mean ...."

"I know exactly what you meant, Mac, and you're right. I _am_ a coward. I don't want to die - as a mortal or an Immortal. And I'll never stop trying to put the day of my death off. But there's a vast difference between what I do and what you do. You could compromise."

"Och, what's that?" he jokes.

"A word you've never heard of, obviously. Seriously, Duncan - I meant what I said in France. Spend as long with me there as you need."

"Will you come to Paris too?"

"If you want me to, yes."

He sighs. I stroke his hair - he has too many burdens. He turns his head towards me, and the invitation in his eyes is clear. I kiss him - gods, no one should kiss like he does, or have such big soulful eyes you can drown in while his lips take possession of you. Mac is a whole body kisser, and it's like being draped in a warm Highlander blanket. "Mmmm," I murmur. "More."

"In bed, Methos. You have to be at the hospital by seven."

"Oh, so this is just Joe's way of making me get up early," I grumble even as Mac pulls me off the couch.

We haven't slept together enough for there to be a 'usual' position, but I'd already got the idea that Duncan was the one who liked to hold, not be held, which didn't bother me in the least. So I am a little surprised when he makes it clear he wants my arms around him, and that he wants to sleep with his head on my chest, which also doesn't bother me - it's rather nice. And it means that when I wake later in the night, and feel the trickle of warm tears on my skin, I can hold him a little tighter and love him, until he falls asleep again.

Since I do have to make such an early getaway, we've pre-ordered a taxi. He doesn't give me any message for Joe, but I'll carry with me the love and worry in his eyes. "I'll be back in a couple of hours, Mac - don't worry if I'm late."

"You call me if there's a problem," he orders sternly. I know he wants to come with me, but it will upset Joe and that isn't a good thing right now. I wave as the taxi drives off.

Joe's awake and bitching when I get there. "Oh, man," he complains. "They shaved my chest hair - can you believe that?"

"Just be thankful you aren't giving birth, Joe. All ready for a hard day's work?"

"Hey, I'm just gonna be lying there - I'll leave all the pacing to you and Mac." He stops to catch his breath - the new heart can't come a minute too soon. "Methos, is he okay?"

Like I said, he's a sharp-eyed man. "He will be the minute you're out of surgery and awake. You know what he's like."

"And if I didn't, you sure do. You and he ... you're ..." I sit silently, refusing to help him out, finding some amusement in the way he's struggling. "Are you ...?" He gives up and glares at me.

"If you want to know if we're fucking, the answer is not yet, and only because Andrew doesn't know."

"Oh, boy - that's gonna hurt him," Joe says sympathetically.

"Mac or Andrew?"

"Both of them, Methos. Hell, I can't stand the guy, but the two of them ...." he trails off, for which I'm grateful. I don't particularly want to hear about how hot Duncan and his lover are together. "But you two - it's the real thing?"

"As real as I've ever known it, Joe. Doesn't make it easy or simple."

"No. Methos - I don't have to tell you this might not work out today."

"I know."

"And, well ... there's things I shoulda said, maybe you wouldn't have run out if I'd said them ..."

"Joe, I ran away because I lost my Immortality and I was fool in love with Mac and he didn't seem to want to know. It was nothing to do with you, and it was stupid. You're a friend the like of which I have rarely had in five thousand years, and probably would not see again if I lived another five millennia. I've always considered it a privilege to know you."

He looked stunned. Finally he pulled the mask away from his face so I could see and hear him clearly. "Jesus - you sure take a guy's breath away. I guess all I can say to that is that being a Watcher has given me two of the most amazing experiences a man can have - being friends with Mac, and knowing you. And you damn well better be here when I come out of surgery because I'm gonna spend the next fifty years getting the real deal out of you, okay, old man?"

I grin, even though right now my heart probably hurts worse than his does. "You're on. Now put that back over your nose or you'll get us both into trouble."

He'd only just slipped the mask back on when a nurse came in to give him his pre-med. "He'll be feeling drowsy very soon, Mr Parsons. You might want to go now."

"If you don't mind, I'll wait until you take him up. It's okay - he makes more sense when he's half-asleep." She looks startled at my insult, but Joe just smiles.

"How are you feeling?" I ask. I can see the shot is taking effect already.

"I'm flying, Methos. This stuff is cool."

"You sound like a hippy, Joseph."

I don't want to disturb the operation of the pre-med, so I don't speak, just watch his face as the drug works on him. But he wants to say something before he falls asleep. "Methos," he whispers, not remembering to be discreet, but the nurse isn't paying him any attention. I lean closer to catch the soft words. "Not ready... to be dog food yet..."

I take his hand and squeeze it, my eyesight dimming with tears. "I'm sorry, Joe. I never meant that." I place a hand gently on his brow, and whisper, "You are a lion, my friend. I will always honour you." A slight pressure on my fingers, a slight curving of his lips, the blue eyes drooping but struggling to stay open so he can look his forgiveness at me. I am not worthy of friends like him, I feel.

I hold his hand as he drops off. A few minutes later the anaesthetist comes and checks on him, and then two nurses begin to unhook him prior to taking him up to Pre-op.

"We need to take him now, sir," the doctor tells me politely.

I nod. "Just a second." I bend over and kiss Joe's forehead. "Be well, Joe Dawson," I whisper. "Okay," I say more loudly. "You look after him for us."

"He'll be receiving the best treatment in the state," the doctor assures me. I watch them wheel him out. God, let him be all right.

I hail a taxi back to the loft. Before I use my key I can hear angry voices inside - another Immortal? Unlikely, but I wonder who's come at this most inconvenient time. I let myself in and find myself faced by a very large, angry young man. "Who the hell are you?" he yells. I ignore him, and carefully walk past him over to MacLeod who looks likes shit reheated.

"Mac, care to make the introductions?"

Mac pulls himself together enough to do so. "Jonathan, this is Andrew Summers. Andrew, Jonathan Parsons."

"Pleased to meet you, " I lie politely. "Forgive me for not shaking your hand ..."

My overture is ignored. "Is this him, Duncan?" Andrew's in one hell of a temper and I wonder that Mac hasn't thrown him out.

"Jonathan is Joe's friend, yeah. I told you about him."

"And he's staying here - so where does that leave me?"

Uninvited, is on the tip of my tongue at least, but Mac has more patience, or just more experience. "Andrew, I wasn't expecting you ...."

"And I can easily stay in a hotel," I add smoothly. "Andrew, I don't know if Mac's told you, but this is really a bad time - Joe's just gone into surgery."

Mac turns his puppy eyes on the younger man, who glowers back. "So? Mac, you must need me to be here, your friend says he's going to move out. End of problem."

"If that's okay with you, Mac," I say. Drop it, Highlander, I try to say with my eyes, but he's not having it.

"No, it's not okay. Andrew - I didn't want to tell you here, not in these circumstances, but ... look, you know things have been bad between us ..."

"What are you talking about, Duncan?" Andrew yells and I hear the note of desperation - of fear - in his voice. Dear gods, I think - the child is really in love with my Scot. "We argue, everybody argues."

"Yeah, but not over everything, and not over the fundamental things which we can't seem to get right. Andrew," he says gently, and I know already this is not going to go well. "I've met someone else."

The blond guy backs up against the wall, his eyes darting from Duncan to me and back. "Him? You're fucking him? You couldn't wait a week, could you?"

"It's not like that - I've known him a long time ..."

"And what about me, Mac? We've been together two years - you couldn't maybe tell me about this before?" The kid's got tears in his eyes. "Duncan, don't do this, please. Come back, we can talk. You know I love you."

"I know you do," Duncan says simply. He walks to his lover and takes his hands. "Look, I wish it didn't have to be this way - I was going to come back and talk to you."

"Then do that, Mac," Andrew pleads. "Come home - let's give it another try."

"I can't leave," Duncan says, his voice thick with emotion. "Joe needs me."

"He's got this guy. Please, Duncan, I need you." Big as he is, Andrew looks horribly young and vulnerable. Mac's soft heart is touched and he pulls the guy into a hug, looking at me over the top of his head. Bad move, if you ask me. I shake my head - what a fucking mess. I wait a minute or two, then clear my throat.

"Look, maybe I should check into a hotel. Mac, I'll call ...."

He nods, his face a picture of pain, matching what I feel but don't show, thanks to my great experience in hiding every emotion. I pick up the daypack and he mouths 'I love you' at me as I turn to go. 'I'll call later,' I mouth back.

My control lasts through the taxi ride and through checking into the best hotel Seacouver has to offer, which isn't much, and right up to the point the door to my room closes behind me. Then I give vent to a scream muffled by biting my sleeved arm. How screwed am I? Mac will never be able to tell Andrew it's over, and the longer he lets this go on, the more pain he's causing all of us. He is slipping away from me, and I have hardly had him. Before, I would have abandoned the field, waited a decade or two, and Andrew would have gotten bored, or old or even dead, and I could come back to Duncan. I don't have that sort of time any more, but I've got too much pride to fight Andrew for Mac. If Mac doesn't leave him of his own accord, then I won't do anything to force the issue. This is for purely selfish reasons - I don't want to live with Duncan's guilt. The trouble is, I don't want to live without him either.

The need for oblivion almost overwhelms me, and only the remembrance that the aftermath is really no longer trivial or worth it keeps me from emptying the minibar. Come on, Methos - you're five thousand years old and then some. You have to have better ways of dealing with pain than this. But nothing ever works - except time. Alexa will have ceased to be a raw wound in twenty or so years, and maybe I'll be over Duncan in twice that. Maybe. Suddenly, I miss my lovely home in Les Fontaines, and the peace I had fought for and won. Just a few days ago, I think wistfully. I didn't know Mac loved me, and I wasn't faced with losing something I didn't even know existed.

Having denied myself the relief of alcohol, and not really having the inclination to wander the streets, I lie on the bed fully clothed, hugging a pillow, pretending it's Mac. Like he said - the real thing is so very much better.

I doze off for a couple of hours, but it's only noon when I wake up, bleary eyed and feeling more tired than ever. Joe will still be in surgery. Dare I risk a call to Duncan's mobile? I decide I can, but he's got it switched off, which is slightly worrying since the hospital could easily be trying to call him. I leave a message telling him where I'm staying and that I'll meet him at the hospital later. Then I call the hospital itself - no word on Joe, which at least means that nothing bad has happened.

For some reason, I find myself thinking back to when Kronos nearly tore Mac and me apart forever. Back then I only had myself to blame for that - well, Cassandra played her part, but then she was my fault too. But the same thing - one relationship that wouldn't die nearly destroyed another new and much needed one. We got through that, partly through Mac's own need, partly because of mine, and partly through a little meddling by Joe and Amanda. But now Amanda is off playing house with her boytoy, Joe's on death's door, and Mac ... Mac needs me, I am sure of it. My own need isn't in question. But Mac also has a need to be the hero, to take care of people, and ditching one lover to take up with another doesn't fit with his self-image in so many ways it's hard to know where to start enumerating them. I can see how Andrew's managed to hang on to him despite the problems - he's good-looking, strong with a hint of vulnerability which reminds me not a little of dear Amanda, and more than that, he knows what buttons to push. Tell Mac you need him, that you love him, and it's like catnip to a cat, or a hit to a junkie. He can't say no or stay away.

Maybe I should play the weak and feeble card too, I think sourly. Wouldn't take much acting - between the Scot and the Watcher, this former Immortal is feeling pretty wrung out. The thing is, I've only lived this long by concealing my weaknesses, and hiding my needs and wants except under very controlled circumstances. Revealing my raw desire for Mac comes hard to me, and certainly I can't do it cold-bloodedly just to win against a rival. God! This is giving me the most horrendous headache. My stomach growls, and I realise that at least part of my depression is low blood sugar induced. I can at least deal with that, and I go out in search of food, aspirin, fresh bandages and reading matter, all of which I find down in the hotel shopping plaza. I could eat from room service but sitting in the restaurant at least gives me some small reason to be civilised. I even manage to kill an hour reading the newspapers, something I haven't done in five years. I kill another hour by walking aimlessly around once familiar streets, amusing myself in a small way with the novelty of not worrying about Challenges, and then give up the battle and get a taxi to the hospital where I can at least pretend I am waiting for news about Joe and not pining like a teenager over MacLeod.

Joe is still in surgery, no surprise, and isn't expected out for at least another hour, possibly two. I find myself back in the little garden courtyard, and miss my own garden like mad. I was only half joking with Mac calling my plants my lovers - they have become my friends when people have let me down so often. But I vow I'm not going to become a Miss Haversham figure if this all goes as badly as it seems to be. I won't, I refuse to wither away. I have a full and useful life back in France, people who depend on me, people who even love me in a funny way. Mac stays, he goes, he'll do what he has to. I'll go on, I swear it. I'm good at doing that at least.

I'm not sure how long I sit in the garden but it is long enough that Duncan's deep voice startles me. I glance at my watch - gods, Joe will be out of surgery soon. "Methos," he says simply, coming to sit by me. "I'm so sorry."

I move away a little. "What for, Duncan?"

"For this morning, for Andrew ..."

"Speaking of whom, where is he?"

"Back at the loft."

"Oh. Good," I say feebly.

He moves closer. "No, it's not good. Methos, I didn't want any of this ...."

"But it's happened, so what are you going to do about it, MacLeod?" I can't help the slightly acid tone.

His eyes narrow a little at the formal name. "I've been talking to him."

"And?"

"And ... Methos, it's a shock to him ... I owe it to him to explain."

"Fine. Good, Highlander. Well, do let me know where I fit into your future plans, if at all. I think I'd like to see how Joe is, if you don't mind." I stand stiffly, intending to go back inside, but he grabs my arm.

"You're doing it again, Methos. Give me a chance to put this right."

I jerk my arm away. "MacLeod, you take all the time you want. Go back to Paris with him if you want - do whatever you see fit. I'm not standing in your way or making any demands. All I ask is that you behave in a similarly civilised manner."

"Civilised," he repeats dully.

"Yes. As in not making a scene in a public place," I wave my hand, indicating the hospital, "or in front of our sick friend, or arguing over me in front of me with Andrew. Beyond that, you're in control. Right where you need to be," I add bitterly, almost under my breath.

"You think this is about me having control?" he laughs slightly wildly. "Jesus, Methos, I never felt more out of control in my life, except maybe when Ahriman was screwing with my head. That's what's happening now - everyone is screwing with my head." He holds the said body part in his hands as if it's hurting him. I touch him on the top of it.

"Mac, I'm not screwing with your head. This isn't a barrel of laughs for me either. I mean it - do what you have to with Andrew. You know I'll be here when - if - you come back."

"When I come back," he says fiercely, standing and taking my hands firmly, albeit gently, in his big paws. "When. I promise."

"Okay - that's good enough for me. Now - Joe?"

Our entrance is well-timed - Joe's doctor is just ready to tell us the latest. Joe's come through the surgery and is in Recovery, but we won't be able to see him until tomorrow. He'll be in Intensive Care overnight and probably longer. But the first major hurdle has been leapt, and I feel my knees go weak. Duncan feels the same way, and we go in search of coffee, which we find in a small caf within the hospital building. "He's gotta make it, Methos," Mac says fiercely.

"He will, Duncan. He will. Think of what he's beaten so far. He'll make it." And for the first time that day, I believe it.

We drive in almost total silence back to my hotel, and without discussing it, I know he's going to come up to my room. Barely has the door closed when he's seized me, kissing me and hugging me with equal passion and desperation. Reluctantly I push him off. "Mac, you've got Andrew waiting for you."

He shoves off me and growls in frustration. "He wants to stay at the loft, even after everything I said this morning."

"You know you can make him leave, if you want. You can end this right now - if you want. And Mac - it's not going to hurt him less if you do it slow."

"He's just a kid, Methos. And he loves me, he really does. I told him I loved him - he has a right to expect me to live up to that."

"No!" I shout. "Love. Dies. People change. Relationships go bad and you cannot make them good by forcing them. It's a pity that he's going to be hurt, but unless you intend to lie to him for the rest of the time he chooses to be with you, he's going to hurt whatever you do. Mac - you don't get to be the handsome prince in this story. He needs to find someone else for that. He's going to hate you for a while and there's nothing you can do about it except be kind and understanding if and when he needs it." He shakes his head in annoyance. "Duncan - what if he wants to make love tonight? What will you do?"

He looks at me in shock. "I cannae," he says horrified.

"Exactly. Leaving him in the loft is a fight waiting to happen. Whether I'm there or not, this is not fair on you or him."

He nods. "I know. Look - have you got time to have dinner with me? He's not expecting me back, and to be honest, I need some more time before I can face him."

"Do you want me to come back with you?" I ask carefully.

"Would you? I think I need to show him that we're really a couple. He'll have to find somewhere else to stay."

Doesn't that sound like fun, children? For the second time in twenty-four hours, Mac offers me a meal while at the same time robbing me of my appetite. But he eats as little as I do, picking at his bread roll, and drinking more than is probably wise until I remind him he's driving. He switches to coffee in a blatant bit of time wasting. "Time to face the music, Highlander," I say softly, calling for the bill.

We walk out slowly, and like me, I figure he's thinking of the best way of handling the inevitable confrontation. Suddenly he stiffens in a manner all too familiar to me, and his 'oh fuck' confirms it. "Methos, head to the car."

"Mac, you don't need to do this...." but it's too late.

"Duncan MacLeod. Finally."

 

* * *

Duncan almost cursed out loud when the young punk called his name. What the hell else could go wrong today, he wondered. "Look, walk away, kid. You don't need this, and we've got an audience."

To his horror, the boy simply pulled out a gun and calmly shot Methos before Mac could move or react. He only just caught his friend as the old man moaned and sagged to the ground, gut shot. His assailant giggled. "Terrible thing, the rising violence on our city streets, don't you think, MacLeod?"

Duncan only took enough time to lay Methos carefully down before he leapt, drawing his katana as he launched himself at the punk, who was obviously surprised at the speed of his attack, but ready to meet it. Behind him, he could dimly hear Methos' soft groans but he concentrated on taking this bastard down, the bastard who dared hurt the man he loved, and who had broken the rules of the Game so flagrantly. The kid was obviously counting on his being distracted, so he refused to play it that way. His opponent was pitiful, once he got past the bravado - all flash, no stamina. He didn't know enough to get rid of the gun he still held and Duncan had no trouble beating him backwards. The punk quickly realised he was losing, fear sweat visible even in the low light, and raised the revolver, obviously intending to cheat his way into victory. When he saw what he was up to, Duncan roared in anger and sliced the offending hand from the man's arm. The kid screamed, clutching the stump to his chest, but not for long - he couldn't scream once his vocal cords were detached, like the rest of his head and neck, from the rest of his body. His head fell to the ground with the thunk of a rotten melon, and then the body collapsed on top of it like so much garbage.

Duncan didn't even spare him a look but ran to his lover's side. He had one desperate hope here, and he needed it to work - he could tell Methos was already dying, and he prayed this would do the trick. Blood poured out of the huge hole - it was amazing that Methos still lived. To Duncan's surprise, Methos found the strength to struggle feebly as Duncan took him in his arms and held on tight, and even to gasp out a faint 'don't', but then the Quickening hit them in all its fury and electricity. He hadn't expected it to be so powerful - the kid must have been hunting a while, or had got lucky - and Methos contorted in agony as the bolts of lightning hit him and coursed through both their bodies. 'Let it work, let it work', Duncan chanted with the small part of his mind that was left in control as he too twisted under the onslaught.

It went on far too long, and left him exhausted and numb. He'd let Methos slip from his arms a few seconds before, and the old man lay moaning on the ground. For a moment, Duncan thought he had failed, but then he saw one of Methos' hands where the bandage had slipped - the grazes were gone. Desperately he scrabbled at Methos' shirt and looked for the bullet hole - it was already closing, and as he looked, the faint song of Immortal presence became apparent, grew stronger with every second. "Thank God," Duncan said fervently. Methos would live. Methos would live.

The punch which knocked him sideways took him utterly by surprise. "You fucking son of a bitch," Methos growled, dragging himself away and upright. "You had no fucking right! No right at all!"

"You were dying, Methos!"

"And now I'm Immortal and back in the Game where idiots like this can Challenge me for walking down the street. Oh, well done, MacLeod. How well-thought out and considerate of you," he spat. Duncan couldn't understand the rage, but there was no doubting its existence.

"I couldn't let you die, Methos."

"Why not, MacLeod? What makes you think that dying like that wouldn't be better than what's happening to Joe, or being killed by the likes of this shit?"

"Methos - don't leave," Duncan begged. "I know you're angry ..."

"Oh, I'm beyond angry, Highlander," Methos said icily. "A long time ago I made a vow that no one - _no one_ , do you hear - was going to make decisions for me. Not you, not Kronos, nobody. And I had decided that I would accept mortality. Do you have _any_ idea how hard it was for _me_ to do that? I was _happy_ , you son of a bitch!" emotion breaking through again in the anguished voice. "And now you've taken that away. All that's left is the fucking Game and the killing and ... oh, _shit_." Methos hung his head and looked very old, very tired.

Duncan's heart ached for the desolation he heard in his words. He longed to reach for Methos, to hold him and assure him that it wasn't the tragedy he thought it was. But his slight movement made Methos step back, and glare.

"Go back to Andrew, MacLeod. Give him what he needs. I don't want it from you. I want nothing from you. Not this, not your interference."

"I love you," Duncan said desperately. "Don't do this, Methos."

"I will do as I please. Never forget that." Methos staggered away and picked up the punk's fallen sword and then the tip was at Duncan's throat. "You've destroyed my peace for the last time. Hear this, Highlander. The next time you and I meet, I will take your head." The hazel eyes burned in the dim light, and Duncan's mouth was suddenly dry. And then Methos was walking off, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

The T-bird's passenger window was smashed when he got back to it, and Methos' pack and bag were gone, so he figured that the old man couldn't even bear to wait for him to open up. The $200 thrown carelessly on the front seat confirmed it. He climbed into the car but even though he knew he had to get out of the area soon, he couldn't move. He rested his head on the steering wheel, tears pricking his eyes, his body feeling dirty and vile from the kid's Quickening. Methos had finally run. He had finally done the one thing the old man couldn't forgive or deal with. He hadn't thought, Methos was right - he had only reacted. All he could think was that he would lose Methos if he didn't share the Quickening with him. And he had still lost him. At least Methos was still alive, that was something. Not a small thing either.

Methos was gone. What was left to him? Andrew? The man who still loved him, despite everything? Duty had sustained him before. What else was there now?

There was one thing he felt he had to do before he could even contemplate going back to Paris with Andrew. The state he was in, covered in the boy's blood and that of Methos required an explanation and Duncan was sick of lying. He climbed the stairs to the loft and let himself in. Andrew was reading but came over to Duncan immediately, horror clear on his face. "Jesus, Mac - that's blood! Are you hurt? Here, give me your coat."

Duncan let his partner strip him, too weary and heartsick to resist, and let himself be led to the couch and a glass of Scotch pressed into his hand. Andrew was the last person he wanted with him now, but the man deserved better than to be cast aside, especially when his love and concern were being given so generously to his unfaithful partner. "What happened?" Andrew asked, wiping blood spatters gently from his face.

"Andrew ..." And then his courage failed him. "I stopped to help someone who was hit by a car."

"God, Duncan - are they all right? Are you?" Feeling lower than dog crap he let Andrew fuss over him, not because it made him, Duncan, feel better, but because it helped Andrew. But finally he pushed the hands away.

"I'm okay. Leave it, I'm not the one who's injured." He was more brusque than he meant to be, and Andrew moved away, looking hurt.

"How's Joe?" the younger man asked politely.

"He's out of surgery, and in Recovery. I can't see him until tomorrow."

"And Jonathan?"

"He's ..." He took a deep breath to admit his failure. "He's gone," and almost winced at the joy in Andrew's face.

"So does that mean you're going to give us another try?"

"Yes, it does," Duncan said, killing his love and his heart with three simple words. Andrew hugged him, and he forced himself to respond to the warm kiss. "But, look - you know there are problems. We can't sweep them under the carpet."

"We can fix things, Mac. Just watch. I'll change, you'll see..."

Duncan grabbed Andrew's hands and made him face him. "No! Andrew, don't change for me. I don't want that of you or anyone. You have to be true to yourself. No one should force you to change. All I want is for us to try, to talk. Not change."

Andrew looked confused. "Okay, if that's what you want. You look shattered - do you want to come to bed?"

"I need a shower first - I'll join you in a minute or two."

He took refuge in the bathroom, and finally hot tears mingled with the hot water, his sobs hidden by the noise of the spray. It's over - it's really finally, irrevocably over, he realised. And all he wanted, more than life itself, was to hold Methos one more time.

 

* * *

A month later, he was back in Paris. Joe's new heart was working perfectly, and he was now at home being taken care of by a private nurse Duncan had paid for, insisting on it over Joe's protests and knowing it was an inadequate attempt to expiate the guilt he felt. Joe had been so hurt that Methos had disappeared again, and not even the message he got from 'Piers Adams' in ICU, sending his best wishes, and assuring him that they would have many years to 'get the real deal' mollified him.

"What the hell is going on?" he'd demanded, still weak as a kitten from the surgery.

Shamefaced, Duncan had admitted what had happened and that Methos had recovered his Immortality.

"But that's great, isn't it?" Joe had asked, understandably puzzled.

"You'd think so, but he doesn't. He'd got used to mortality, and liked being out of the Game. Now he hates me."

"Mac, Methos loves you with every fibre in his being. How can he hate you?"

"He said he'd take my head next time we met."

"And you believe him?"

"Yes," Duncan had said dully, leaving no room for argument.

Joe's shock at this sent monitors pinging and Duncan had been shunted aside while things were checked and adjusted. He was only allowed to return after he had been lectured about upsetting the patient.

"What about you and Andrew?" Joe had finally asked.

"We're making a go of it again."

The look of disgust Joe gave him at that statement mirrored Duncan's own state of mind. He felt he'd betrayed Methos, betrayed their love, but without him there, without being able to talk to him, he didn't know what else to do. Oh, he'd tried to contact Methos, but the old man had checked out of the hotel the following day following the Quickening, and his mobile was switched off. Emails bounced back saying his address was blocked by the recipient, and he didn't dare set up a temporary account - Methos would never forgive the insult or the intrusion. Short of turning up at Les Fontaines, Duncan didn't know what else to try, and he felt that Methos was probably angry enough to carry out his threat to kill him.

He hoped in time - a lot of time - things might ease, but inside he felt so empty, so bereft. It was pitiful how Andrew had tried to soothe away the sadness in Duncan's eyes, never guessing he was the cause. Duncan vowed to never let him discover what had really happened, and to put heart and soul into retrieving the relationship. The kid would live fifty or sixty years, Duncan would make him happy, and then he would be free. It seemed only fair.

The irony was that things _did_ improve - a lot. For the first time, they really talked about the things that bothered them, without letting it progress to an argument. For the first time, Duncan got to the bottom of Andrew's dislike of the island and found that it was based on an unhappy and quite awful camping holiday the younger man had gone on as a youngster. Once this came out, they were able to go to the island and actually enjoy themselves. Duncan made more of an effort to tell Andrew what he liked and did not - that he liked breakfasts with his lover, that art soirees made him sad because of Tessa, and Andrew understood. To Duncan's amazement, what had begun so unpromisingly flowered into a real friendship, and the things that had attracted him to Andrew made living with him easier than he would have dreamed. But he never recovered the love he once thought he felt, and at night ... he dreamed of Methos.  
 

 

* * *

_Les Fontaines, 2005._

Duncan trudged up the hill, his heart numb, and his mind empty. He wasn't carrying any luggage, not even a light backpack -- he didn't expect to be staying long. He reached the entrance, rang the abbey's bell and waited.

The gate swung open. Methos greeted him with a sword held at the ready, exactly as he expected. "Leave now, MacLeod. Holy Ground won't save you forever," the old man ground out between clenched teeth.

"I don't want it to."

Methos glared. "Did you think I wasn't serious, MacLeod?"

"No, I know you are. Do you want to take my head now, or do we talk first?"

Methos advanced through the gate, and then his Ivanhoe was at Duncan's neck. "We aren't on Holy Ground now, MacLeod. If you intend to go for your sword, I suggest you do so now." The deadly weapon didn't waver.

"I haven't brought one. Do it, Methos." Duncan knelt and closed his eyes. The sword bit a little into his neck, but the next thing he felt was a stinging blow to his cheek which rocked him backwards.

"Damn you, you bastard!" Methos hissed, grabbing his hair and shaking him. Duncan opened his eyes. "What the fuck are you doing, Mac? Why aren't you home playing housie with lover boy?"

"Andrew left me two months ago." His voice sounded as dead as he felt inside.

"Find someone better, did he?" Methos said sarcastically.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he did."

Methos dropped his sword, but his expression was still angry. "So, what am I? A comfort screw or your convenient method of committing suicide? Fuck off, MacLeod. Find some other sucker to give you what you want." He turned on his heel and walked back onto Holy Ground. Duncan just stayed kneeling where he was. He had nowhere else he wanted to be, nowhere he wanted to go. He was prepared to stay here however long it took to get Methos to give him the peace he longed for.

Methos turned back. "I told you to leave, MacLeod. I don't want your Quickening."

"And I don't want to leave, Methos," Duncan said quietly, staring at the ground. "I want to be with you, and if the only way is for you to take my head, that's what I want. Please, Methos. Just do it. I can't ... I can't ... live ...not any more."

 

* * *

I stare at Mac, kneeling in the dirt, head hanging, his hair around his face, and wonder just what the hell is going on. The last time he'd knelt before another Immortal, the guy was fully intending to take his head, and it was me who saved his pathetic arse. Is he expecting me to give a flying fuck about him? I growl to myself and slam the gate shut. He'll get sick of this soon enough -- it's hot and dry and his knees will hurt. I really don't know what he wants and I really don't care. I've spent two years in utter misery thanks to him, and years and years before that. This man has disrupted -- shattered -- my life over and over, and now he wants what? A second ... no, third, fourth, chance? No bloody way.

Angelique is in Australia with her daughter so the abbey is all mine at the moment, just the way I like it. Since MacLeod so kindly forced me back into the Game, I decided that I would stay on Holy Ground as long as I could. I was content before, and given time, I will be again. The sun has cooled enough for me to go back to my weeding. We've had a lot of rain recently, and the garden and the uninvited visitors are both flourishing. I yank out invading grasses, and linger over a couple of dandelions before granting them clemency -- they can live until they lose their pretty heads. Normally I enter a Zen-like state when I garden, but as I pull and trim, all I can see is Mac's face. "Shit!" I curse finally, jabbing the trowel angrily into the ground.

I climb my bell-tower which overlooks the gate -- damn him, he's still there, hasn't moved in an hour that I can see. I climb down, grab my sword again. If he really wants to die, fine.

He's still kneeling there when I open the gate. "All right, MacLeod. You can have your wish."

He lifts his head. "Thank you," he says without looking at me.

He really means it -- that stops me dead in my tracks. His eyes are running with tears, trickling down his face which looks ... gods, how much weight has he lost? He looks bloody horrible. I lift my sword to swing it, but I can't -- who the fuck am I kidding? "Go home, Duncan," I say finally, as kindly as I can.

"I have no home except where you are, Methos," he says in a choked voice I can barely make out.

"Mac, go back to Paris. You have friends, you have people who care about you ..."

"All gone ... nothing means anything any more... I am dead, Methos. Please, kill me now." He lifts his eyes to me. "I don't want to live like this. It hurts too much," he whispers.

Despite my anger, I drop to my knees in front of him, my sword dropped on the ground. I seize his shoulders and shake him. "What's _wrong_ with you, MacLeod?"

"Everything's wrong, Methos. I have no home, no love... I am empty here," he strikes his breast, "and here," touching his head. "I am sick of living, sick of fighting. I can't sleep, I can't eat ... I'm so tired," he says in quiet desperation.

"Oh, _Mac_ ," I say, my emotional armour cracking into a thousand pieces as I see his pain, my anger forgotten. I pull him close, and he sobs once as his head rests on my shoulder. I sink down to sit on the ground, pulling him with me. "Rest, Duncan. You're safe. Rest."

His hand clutches my shirt, and I can feel his tears soaking the material on the shoulder. I pat his back. "I'm sorry, Methos. I'm really sorry," he mumbles incoherently.

"It's okay, Mac. It'll be all right, shhh now." And there we sit, two grown men, nearly six thousand years between us, like two children crying over a dead puppy.

The sun is beginning to set and after we have sat here for over half an hour, I push back the hair from his face and lift his head. "Come with me, Duncan."

"Do you want me to?" he asks, and his uncertainty makes me want to weep.

"It's a big place, we don't have to see each other at all," I tell him, echoing what I told him on his last visit. He tries to smile, but he is too sad, too depressed to do that. "Come," I say again, helping him stand. He stumbles like a drunkard and I have to help him stay upright.

I take him to the spare room, not wanting to force the issue of where he will sleep. "Why don't you shower, Mac? I'll come back with something to eat." But even as I speak, I can feel him trembling, and his eyes are beginning to fill up. He's not just at the end of his rope, he's fallen off it, suspended in the air like Wyle E. Coyote after the road runner -- if he looks down, he'll be lost forever. I undo his shirt and slip it off his shoulders. Gods, Mac, what have you been doing to yourself? I loosen his belt, drop his trousers, and push him to sit down. He's as lifeless as a raggedy doll and doesn't react in any way when I take his pants and shoes off. "Lie down, Duncan." He obeys me and then curls into a ball. I fetch a rug from the wardrobe -- it's not even slightly cool, but the soft blanket will offer him comfort. I drape it over him, quickly strip down to my underwear, then lie beside him, holding him through the blanket. He's shaking, and his breathing is hoarse. "It's okay," I say meaninglessly, even though it is clear he is far from okay. As I hold him, I review what I know of clinical depression and its treatment -- Marie Picard might be able to prescribe some of the new serotonin uptake inhibitors for him, but how they would work on an Immortal, I have no idea. We aren't even supposed to suffer from things like this, but the number of crazy Immortals around tends to contradict that idea.

I'm hiding behind a medical diagnosis of course. What is clear is that Mac's life has fallen apart in a big way, and he has run away -- to -- the only person he thinks can end the pain. I've felt like this a few times over a long life, and I always got over it eventually. With help. I'd heard from Joe that Mac was living with Andrew, and that they seemed to be doing okay, so Mac's news today is a surprise. I know Joe doesn't know, because I've been in constant touch with him and he's never mentioned it, which he would, since he heartily disapproved of Mac getting back with his old boyfriend. And of me, of course. I told him why what Mac did sucked and he sent a snotty note back saying I should grow up and stop my whining. Bastard. A new heart, good health and he thinks he can tell me what to do like he's my goddamn father.

I can hear from Mac's breathing that he is at last deeply asleep. His clothes are dirty, and he doesn't seem to have brought any clean ones -- I think I have some dungarees and T-shirts that will fit, and maybe even a couple of pairs of boxers that might fit. I slip off the bed, gather his clothes up and take them to my room. I find the spares, and take them back to his room -- he hasn't stirred. Good.

I go to the kitchen -- I want stuff that will keep on a tray if he doesn't wake up for a while. Juice, bread, fruit -- some walnuts Angelique bought for me. I put the tray down quietly, but my Presence must have disturbed him, because he rolls over and opens dull eyes. "Oh." He sounds disappointed.

"How do you feel?" I ask in my best doctor voice.

"I thought this was a dream. I thought I was dead." I can't help myself, a shiver goes through me. "Are you real, Methos?"

Now he's got me seriously spooked -- the last time the Highlander lost his grip on reality, we were dealing with a bloody mess and a dead student before the end of it. "Yes, I'm real -- why would you think I wasn't?"

"I've been dreaming ... we're together and we're so happy ... then I wake up and you aren't there ... you're never there ... if you take my head, I'll be with you...."

He's crying again. I sit next to him and stroke his hair gently. "Duncan, no one's going to take your head. I'm real, I'm here. And you're just depressed. It won't last, Mac."

He shudders. "You hate me. I can't live knowing that."

"I don't ... I _never_ said I hated you, Mac!" He looks at me as if I'm brain-damaged. "I only wanted to kill you. But I don't hate you." I manage a little grin as I say it.

He gives me a teary smile, but then he closes his eyes again. He doesn't know whether he's coming or going right now, whether he wants to sleep or to talk or whatever. "Mac, when did you last eat?"

"Not hungry," he mumbles. I get up and pour him some juice.

"Here, drink this." He sits up and drinks obediently -- perhaps he's afraid I'll throw him out if he disobeys? He hands me back the glass then slumps back on the bed.

"Tired," he murmurs.

"Then sleep, Duncan. No one can harm you here." He closes his eyes trustingly and I cover him up again. That settles it -- I'll sleep here tonight. I wait until he's deeply under again, and fetch a few necessary items from my own room, including my pillow. It's early for me to go to bed, but on the other hand, I don't want to leave him or wake him up with a reading light, so I settle down beside him. Despite every promise I've made to myself, I have to admit it feels good being next to the big lug again. Or anyone. Methos, come on -- you make Mother Theresa look like a sex maniac. But what do I do about this? My carefully built pretence that I no longer love him has disappeared like tissue paper in rain -- but I'm not prepared to go with him to Paris, or take up with him like nothing had happened. His forcing Immortality back on me still rankles -- even more than him going back to Andrew which I understood in a strange way. Knowing the Highlander, he would have seen it as his bounden duty and it wasn't as if I was offering an alternative.

Fuck. Duncan MacLeod, you have ever been such a pain in the arse. It's a real shame I love you so much, you stupid git.

He's the most uncomfortable of bedmates that night, mumbling and moving about, waking briefly before slipping back into sleep. Once or twice he speaks actual words, and it cuts me deep to hear him say my name so longingly, begging me ... for what? For death? To stay? I just pull him close and murmur his name and he quiets down again. It's a very long night.

In the pre-dawn he groans and turns toward me -- I've been awake for a while. "Methos?" he says in confusion.

"You were expecting maybe the Hunchback of Notre Dame?" I joke.

"Did you sleep here last night?" His brow wrinkles -- the synapses aren't connecting all that well this morning, I see.

"Sleep is a bit of an exaggeration, but I was with you all night."

"Why?" he asks.

"Because it's my house and I'll sleep where I like, MacLeod." He cringes at my irritated tone which I hadn't really intended and I reach a hand to his shoulder. "Sorry, Duncan. I was worried about you. Do you remember anything about yesterday?"

"I wanted you to take my head ... but ... then what happened?"

"You fell apart and I took you into my home like the good kindly old man that I am." I stroke his face. "How do you feel?"

"Tired. Sad," he whispers. I kiss him gently on his forehead. "Methos...."

"Shhh. Duncan, you've been under a lot of stress lately and I think it's made you sick."

"I don't get sick."

"Well, this type of illness is mental, not physical. Are you hungry?"

"A bit," he admits, which is an improvement. He sits up while I pour him some juice and butter some bread. He eats a little but pushes the rest away. "Sorry -- I haven't had much appetite lately."

"So I gather. Mac, what happened with Andrew?"

"You know I was with him?" he asks guiltily.

"Joe told me -- but not that he'd left."

"I couldn't tell him," he whispers and for a moment, I think he might break down again.

"Duncan, look at me." He lifts liquid eyes to mine. "No one is judging you here. I want to help. I promise I won't hurt you about this." I take his hand.

"He ... we became friends, Methos. Funny, it was because of you -- you helped me understand what I had to do to make it work. But I flew to the States for a month and he met someone else. He said ...." He swallows. "He said he knew I didn't love him any more, and it was time to move on. And he was right. I tried, I tried so hard to make it good for him ..." He hangs his head in shame, despair.

"Mac, he decided to leave. You didn't make him, and you can't force love you don't feel. Was it amicable?"

He laughs sourly. "Oh, yeah. We're still friends. He even wants me to go to his wedding."

Insensitive little shit, I say to myself. "But I don't understand why you've come to me -- why you want to die. Don't tell me Duncan MacLeod can't pull them any more."

"I don't care any more. My soul is dead. I _feel_ dead. You're the only one who can touch me any more."

Does he have any idea what hearing these words does to me? He's not even looking at me as he speaks, he's picking lint off the blanket. I can't turn him away -- or down -- just yet, he's too fragile, but I don't want to build hopes which I can't realise either. "I think you need some time to rest and be safe. Did you really leave your sword behind?"

He nods. Jesus. "Well, you don't need it here. You didn't seem to have any bags so I found you some old clothes to wear. Why don't you shower and change? I'll clean up in here. I'll be in the garden or the kitchen -- you remember your way about, don't you?"

"Angelique?"

"She's away for a couple of months." And just as well -- if Mac had turned up while she was here, she'd have taken his head herself, she was so pissed off on my behalf.

He nods and climbs slowly off the bed -- he's moving like an old man and even that simple act tears me in two. I cover by clearing up the non-mess. "See you in a few minutes, Duncan."

I pull on a pair of disreputable shorts, carry the tray back to the kitchen and make myself some breakfast. I take five minutes to send a short note to Joe to tell him the Highlander is safe and with me for the foreseeable future, and steel myself for the inevitable questions. But that I can deal with later. I pour a second cup of coffee and, bare-chested, bare-footed, I wander out to my tree to savour the dawn air. This is such a special time, it's made an early riser out of me. I sip the bitter brew, and try to collect my thoughts. Duncan needs help, and it looks like I'm elected. Duncan wants my love, and he has it -- but the question is, do I show that or not? These last two years have been very, very difficult. All my hard won peace was destroyed, the contentment I had built slowly out of my despair was shredded, and only now have I managed to get any measure of equilibrium. I can only save Mac if I don't lose myself in the process -- but how do I do that? I've never been able to love less than totally -- it's the reason I am so reluctant to give my heart to anyone, because they have me body and soul. He's exactly the same.

I'm still thinking these deep thoughts when he finds me, having found the coffee stash first. He looks a complete hick in my dungarees and white shirt, and I can't help but grin. "What?" he says, sitting beside me.

"All y'all need is some hay sticking out of yo' mouth, Massah MacLeod."

He frowns, looks down at himself, sees what I mean, and smiles. "You think I should run around half naked?" looking at my extensive bareness.

"Do whatever pleases you, Highlander," I say evenly. His smile disappears -- it's a fragile beast. "Duncan, it's not a jibe. Please, _mi casa es su casa_ and all that. If you want to walk about in the nude, do so -- there's no one here but you and me. Make yourself free as if you were in your own house."

He frowns again, and the mouth turns down. He drinks his coffee and doesn't look at me. "Mac? Would you like to stay here for awhile?"

There is such raw gratitude in his eyes, such hope that I feel like an utter turd for what I said and did to him yesterday. But then his eyes cloud over. "Maybe you won't want that."

"Would I offer if I didn't? When did you last make me do something I didn't want to do?"

"August 21, 2003, 9 pm," he says dully. It takes me a second to realise he's referring to the Quickening.

"Yeah, well, water under the bridge and all that," I say with a lightness I don't feel at all. "The real issue here is -- how do we get you well and functioning in the real world?"

"You can't."

"Oh, crap, MacLeod!" I snap without thinking, and he starts to rise off the bench. I grab his arm. "Mac, I'm sorry, sit down." Words aren't working. I pull him down, and move closer so I can put my arm around him. To my surprise he struggles and doesn't want to be held.

"Don't, Methos. I don't want another lie -- I've had two years of that."

I keep my arm where it is, and pull him to me. "Duncan -- this is not a lie. Just because I was -- am -- angry with you about the Quickening, doesn't mean I don't love you. I just don't know what to do about that right now."

His face breaks into the most breathtaking smile. "You still love me? After what I did?"

"Yes, I do -- I just don't know how much I like you sometimes." His smile gets even wider, and I have to admit it's a beautiful sight. "Look, don't get your hopes up, Mac. We can't pretend everything is right between us."

He nods eagerly, and it hurts to see him so desperate to please me that he'll agree to anything I ask of him. How demoralised is he? And how do I get his confidence back without making promises I can't or won't keep, or losing my own soul in his?

A little tenderness won't hurt him. I bend towards him and kiss him gently -- he is being so careful not to push that he barely responds to me. His lips are trembling under mine so I'm careful not to make things too intense. "Now," I say, taking his hand, "if you're going to stay, you're going to pull your weight, understand?" I say severely, and he looks pathetically pleased. "You are now chief cook and bottle washer. I've got a lot of vegetables and fruit that need preserving, and bread to make -- do you know how to do that?"

"You make your own bread?"

"Of course -- do you think I want to go to the village every time I need a loaf? I didn't show you this last time, did I?" Still holding his hand, I lead him to the back garden. He stares at it in amazement. "Great, huh?" Angelique looks after it usually, but since she's away, it's my job. The rain we've had has produced a bumper crop.

"It's amazing," he says, awed.

"It's very handy -- we're more than self-sufficient in fruit and vegetables, and we manage to give away some stuff usually, what we don't preserve. I think sometimes Angelique is laying down stores for the Apocalypse."

He lets my hand go and wanders through the rows of beans and peas, admiring the fat courgettes, the apple and cherry trees. The citrus fruit aren't quite ripe yet. "Now you're here, I can delegate it to you. Know much about vegetables?"

He turns and grins at me. "Not a thing."

"Good, then I won't have to unlearn your mistakes. But we're out of bread, so your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to bake up four loaves of whatever type you choose."

He looks around and realises something is missing. "Where do you get your electricity?"

I point at the roof. "All the tiles are solar panels. The little windmills are also generators, and we have solar hot water. If I really need it, there's a generator."

He nods approvingly -- he's got a similar system on his island. Solar power is a lot more efficient here than in cold damp Washington state.

"You start whenever you're ready," I say casually. "By the way -- how long would you like to stay?"

"Forever," he blurts out. "Sorry, I mean ... as long as you'll let me." Actually, 'forever' suits me, but I can't see him hiding out that long.

"Uh huh. Well, let's say until Angelique gets back and then we'll see. What's happening with the barge?"

"Everything's in storage -- if they don't get a note from me within six months, my lawyers will transfer everything to Joe."

Dear gods, he really was serious. I conceal my shock and say lightly, "Okay, then we don't have to worry about that, but you might want to write to them and tell them everything's okay. You don't need a sword here, and we can order some clothes over the Net, unless you really like the rural look."

"I do, sort of."

MacLeod would look good in a sack, of course. "Fine. I've got things to do, I'll see you in the kitchen later."

My heart is pounding -- I wasn't completely sure until now if his demand for me to take his head was for real, but he really did expect to die, which either means I'm still a lot scarier than I thought I was, or he was a lot worse than I believed. Either isn't a very comforting thought.

Somewhat to my surprise, there's an answer already to my email to Joe. He's demanding to know, and I quote, 'just what in Jesus' name am I fucking doing?'. The timestamp is just ten minutes ago -- he must be up, so I call him in Paris.

"Hi, Joe."

"Methos, you son of a bitch -- what are doing sending me messages like that with no explanation? How's Mac?"

"Mac is okay. Well, actually, he's a mess. "

I tell him about Andrew, and he whistles. "Man, that explains a lot. I've only seen him one time since he got back from the States. He's called me a couple of times, but he said he was too busy to come by. Are you telling me he's busted up about Andrew leaving?"

"Not exactly -- but he's pretty depressed, Joe."

"Maybe all the heads he's been taking are doing that to him."

"How many?"

"Twenty in the last six months."

That's a phenomenal number for someone not actively looking for kills -- it explains a lot. "Fuck it, Joe! Why didn't you tell me?" It's a wonder Duncan hasn't suffered another Dark Quickening. Joe's been careless with my lover. Former lover. Oh, whatever.

"Why, Methos, I didn't think you cared," he says sarcastically.

"Listen, you tin-hearted bastard, Mac's the most important person in my life -- I want to know what happens to him, get it?"

"Okay, Methos -- I'll write that down next to the one about you wanting to kill him the next time you saw him." He sighs and the anger in his voice dies with his next question. "Does he need anything?"

"Peace and quiet, mostly. And time away from the Game -- what's with that, anyway?"

He exhales noisily. "Not sure -- it could be the Gathering, but I think it's a false alarm. But Mac's a powerful draw and he's made himself an easy target. He's not hard to find, and he never walks away from a Challenge -- it frightens the hell out of me, Methos."

To me it sounds like classic suicidal tendencies, but I don't say that to Joe. "Well, he's going to be with me for the next couple of months, and you shouldn't have to worry about him."

"Yeah, unless _you_ take his head."

"It's Holy Ground, Joe. I'll call later this week," I say and hang up. Everything that Joe has said reinforces what I already knew -- Mac has been too hard pressed for too long, and has finally cracked.

I order him some clothes from the same retailer I use, send off some emails concerning the estate, answer Angelique's friendly postcard style message telling me about the adventures she and my goddaughter are having. The trip to Australia was a graduation gift to Emily, and a thank you to Angelique for her loyalty and support. That it has also proved to be well timed is just pure chance.

Mac is up to his elbows in flour, and even has it on his nose. I swipe that off with my finger as I go over to make some fresh coffee, and he smiles. He's setting the dough to prove as I pour out drinks for both of us, and slide a plate of pastries over to him. "Want to try these? I made them yesterday."

Out of politeness he tries one, and pronounces it good. If I'm sneaky, he'll end up eating a decent amount over the day without realising it. He's making walnut bread, and we discuss recipes. I wonder when he last did something as mundane as cooking. I'm not going to ask him, or raise what Joe said. I figure Mac is more like a wild animal right now -- words mean less than physical signs and kindness. Besides, we're both too good at wounding each other with language.

I deliberately linger over coffee and am delighted when he steals a second pastry, the smell of cinnamon seducing his appetite. I watch as he kneads the risen dough again for the second time, the strength in hands trained for killing and fighting used for nothing more dangerous than to battle the uncooked bread and spread the carbon dioxide evenly. With care and skill he divides and shapes the loaves, and they prove once again while the oven is heating. Already the heady smell of yeast fills the air, something I've always loved, and the slight smile on his face tells me that it has happy memories for him too. A little more coffee, then the loaves can go into the oven. He cleans up. "What now, boss?" he asks as he dries his hands.

"Now, we pick lunch."

He follows me out to the vegetable patch, both of us carrying baskets to carry the produce back in. It's hot, and getting humid -- I predict a storm in the next day or so. "What do you want?"

"Peas, carrots, potatoes, some of the beans. A melon, some apples ...."

"Whoa, Methos," he laughs. "How much do you think we're going to eat?"

"Hard work gives me an appetite, I don't know about you. Anyway, this is lunch and supper."

I set him to digging up a couple of potato plants while I pick the peas. "Mac, close your eyes and open your mouth."

"Huh?"

"Trust me," I say severely, and he immediately shuts his eyes. I pop one delicate, beautifully sweet pea into his mouth.

"What? " Then he tastes it and opens his eyes. "That's good," he says wonderingly.

"Haven't you had peas from the garden before?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Poor deprived child. Here," and I put another one in his mouth. He chews appreciatively.

"I didn't think vegetables could be so sweet."

"Nothing like sun-warmed, straight off the plant peas, Mac." The simple pleasure in his eyes makes me glad.

When we've got the vegetables up, he checks his watch -- still time before the bread's ready. "We should pick the stone fruit," I tell him. "If we get hail, we'll lose them."

We collect the most vulnerable, ripest fruit. "Methos," he says and I turn and find a perfectly ripe cherry put between my lips.

"Mmmm," I say appreciatively. "But you're missing out." I pick out another perfect one off the tree and hold it between my teeth. "Come get it, youngster."

He looks startled, but then he leans forwards and bites it delicately from my mouth. He chews the flesh and spits the stone inelegantly onto the dirt before suddenly pulling me close and kissing me with a deliciously fruit scented tongue. I let him explore -- it's the first sign of initiative he's shown. He pulls back slowly. "Do you mind?" he asks softly.

"Not at all, but, Highlander, you've got a bun in the oven." He looks at his watch and swears, before dashing like a mad creature back to the kitchen. I follow more sedately, smiling.

"Disaster?" I ask calmly, watching him juggling hot tins and not offering him any assistance.

"Not quite." He dumps the tins onto cooling racks and the smell of fresh bread fills the kitchen.

"Looks okay to me."

"Looks perfect to me."

The bread does in fact look very good and he's pleased. Such joy in such a simple task. Is this the key? Perhaps it is -- it worked for me seven years ago when I bolted here in panic." You know, I always sneak a slice when it's just out of the tin. You ever do that?" I say innocently.

"Sometimes -- would you like to?"

"If you can get it out of the tin, go for it."

And so we sneak a lovely hot slice of his delicious bread, spread with local butter. It dribbles down his chin. I touch it with my index finger, and lick it slowly. His eyes widen. "Methos, are you flirting with me?"

"Not in the least, Duncan. Flirting is for people who don't know how they feel about each other -- you and I are well past that point."

"Does that mean you and I are going to be sleeping together?"

"What are the odds?"

He smiles shyly. "You're taking this very well, Methos. You didn't die and get replaced by a pod person, did you?"

"For that, I'll suck your brains out after lunch. Speaking of which, what are you planning, since I have provided you with the best nature can offer?"

"What else do you need?" I show him our massive larder and tell him to make free. Mac's a wonderful cook and I am looking forward to his inventions. More than that -- I am looking to that look of pride and pleasure on his face as he enjoys the fruits of his own labour, a gentle, non-violent activity which brings nothing but a sensory delight. And how few of those things do Immortals do? How rare is this for Mac?

I leave him to whatever it is he's up to, and take a look at the garden -- I think that storm is closer than I thought. I pick some of the more fragile flowers which will suffer if we get pounded from the heavens, and take them back to the kitchen. "Sweets for the sweet," I say cornily, shoving them under Mac's nose. He sniffs deeply.

"Aw, you shouldn't have," he clowns, but his eyes are unsmiling. Now what's wrong?

"Here," I say, handing him the impromptu bouquet.

"No one's ever given me flowers before," he says suspiciously. "You're not making fun of me, are you?"

"Making fun of you is like shooting fish in a barrel, MacLeod -- no sport at all. No, sometimes a flower is just a flower. Stick 'em in some goddamn water and stop reading significance into everything, will you?"

I plonk down at the counter. This time yesterday, I hardly thought about Duncan at all -- oooh, for all of five minutes. Now I can look my fill. Would that things could stay this easy.

He makes a simple fish salad with my own peas and beans, trout from the local river, and rice, and a bottle of good Chardonnay. He even clears his plate, and as we sit sipping our refilled wine glasses, I reflect that just a few hours have made a hell of a difference in him. There's no disguising the stress lines around his eyes and mouth, and since they aren't permanent physical changes, I know he is still carrying a mental burden. I didn't expect to see a miracle, and it isn't -- relief from deep pain is a soothing thing in itself.

He looks at me over his wine glass. "Are you going to regret not killing me, Methos?"

I laugh sourly at the idea. "MacLeod, do you honestly think taking your head would make me happy in any way?"

"I thought it would."

Damn. "You aren't, as I have often remarked to Mr Dawson amongst others, the most perspicacious person I've even encountered, Mac."

"No shit?" he says innocently, but his eyes twinkle a little and then we both cackle.

"MacLeod, can we possibly stop talking about killing and death and other morbid subjects? Just live for today -- I know that runs completely against your nature ..."

He snorts. "Pot and kettle, Methos," he mutters.

"...but you might find you will be happier if you do," I say, ignoring the interruption, glaring at him.

"Yes, sir."

"Shut up. Now, I've got some things to do in the garden before it rains."

That's a flat lie, but I need no excuse to hide in my sanctuary. I secretly love the build up to a good honkin' thunderstorm -- the heaviness in the air, the weird light, the sense of drama about to unfold. Ostensibly I'm weeding -- actually I'm watching the clouds boil up in the west. Mac wanders out and stares at me. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting. Duncan, take your shoes off and come and sit. Come on -- just toss 'em over into the cloister."

He looks at me as if I have finally crossed over that hazy line dividing sanity from insanity -- I could have told him I crossed that line three thousand years ago but I doubt that would reassure him. He puts his shoes under cover and comes to sit cross-legged next to me. "You're weird, Methos."

"Hah, I have not begun to weird. Shut up and wait."

"What are we ...?"

 _Shut_ up, MacLeod." I close my eyes, put my hands on my knees and turn my palms up to the skies. I don't have to look the feel the depth of his confusion, but I ignore it. This is a sacred moment, and I am not to be dissuaded.

We sit in silence for less than five minutes, when the first rumble of thunder sounds. "Yes," I say quietly.

"Methos, it's going to rain."

"Yes."

"Methos ..."

"Shhh."

I am only wearing my shorts and the change in the air as the storm approaches electrifies the small hairs on my arms and chest. Goose pimples form as the temperature drops abruptly, and I shiver in anticipation.

A fat drop hits my back, then another, and then suddenly the heavens open. I open my eyes -- the clouds are alight with wild electricity, and the wind is whipping around the courtyard. "Methos!" Mac shouts. "We should get inside!"

"We're Immortal," I shout back against the wind. "Live a little!"

"You're nuts!"

"Yeah!"

The rain is bucketing down, and is freezing against the previous heat. It's glorious. I turn to Mac -- he's drenched, his hair is hanging in rat tails and he looks bewildered. Utterly wonderful. I hold my arms open and invite him to come to me. He leans over -- knocks me over, and pins me down, kissing me with the rain sheeting down, his hair catching in my eyes and my mouth, and I want to inhale him. His wet clothes rub against my nipples which are peaked because of the cold, and his groin presses against mine. His mouth is burning hot, and tastes like rain water and wine and Duncan. "Yes," I hiss, trying to bring him closer. He's trying to shelter me from the rain -- I don't want that so I roll him over. He struggles, not understanding. "Relax, Highlander," I say, laying my cheek against him, letting the rain hit my back like a living thing.

The hail starts and it stings, but I don't care. Mac's got his eyes tightly closed against the invading moisture and ice -- I cover his face a little with my hand. "Look at me, Duncan," I yell, clearing the water out of his eyes with my other hand. He blinks hard. "You're safe, Mac -- just feel it."

"I'm wet!"

"So what?!"

He pulls me down to possess my mouth again. He's trying to suck the life out of me, or so it seems, and I giggle remembering his pod person crack. "Nuts," I think he says again. I can't really hear him over all the _sturm und drang_.

Finally it's a straight choice between hypothermia and getting warm, and Mac, being more sensible than me, drags me out of the weather. I'm shivering and laughing and clutching at him, and he's trying in a futile way to try and wipe some of the water off my skin with his hands. "Come with me," I say, and with a dubious look on his face, he lets me drag him to my secret lair. The warmth hits us as the door opens up. "Get those wet things off," I order, throwing him a big fluffy towel and shucking my wet pants. I barely wait for him to strip before I'm rubbing him roughly with the towel, warming his skin by friction, and mopping the worst of the water from his dripping hair. He grabs my arm and makes me stand still so he can return the favour and eventually he pulls me close with a towel around my shoulders.

"What is this?" he asks, looking around.

"My winter bedroom -- come and sit in the solar."

It's really just a south facing room which catches sun nearly all day and all year, and has hot water storage tanks built into one wall. I avoid it in summer unless the weather is really wet or unseasonably cold (or I need to dry laundry), but it's perfect to warm up a pair of chilled bodies. The 'solar' is the warmest part of the room, with more towels, a comfortable couch with rugs draped on it, and a fire place in one corner. Already the chill from the rain is departing. I draw him down on the seat, and fetch a towel to wrap his hair in, and a blanket to put around his shoulders. I throw our wet clothes over the drying rail before pouncing on him to snuggle up under the blanket with him.

"Now what was all that about, you lunatic?" he asks, his big hand wrapped around the back of my head, now resting on his chest which is warm and dry.

"How do you feel, Mac?"

"Feel? I ... I feel good," he says in surprise.

"'Xactly. Now lie still until you're all toasty and the rain stops."

We can hear the storm outside, and see it through the massive windows. It's the biggest storm this month, which has seen a few -- this is not the first time I've done this, this summer, but the first time I've ever shared it. He strokes my hair gently -- I can tell his state of relaxation by his slowing heartbeat and his measured breathing.

"Thank you, Methos," he whispers and kisses the top of my head.

"That's okay, Mac. All courtesy of Mother Nature."

"I never saw being wet as being anything but a bloody nuisance."

"Ah, but you've never been wet in my garden before. This is a magical place, everything changes to good here." I say solemnly.

"Definitely a weirdo, Methos."

"You're giving me a complex, MacLeod. Are you all warmed up now?"

"Yeah," he says reluctantly. "But I don't want to move."

"Not even as far as the bed?" I ask casually.

"Methos ... what do you want me to do?"

All the humour is gone, and the sad uncertainty is back. I get up and offer my hand. "All I want you to do, Duncan, is to stop thinking and to feel good for a while. The bed's more comfortable than the couch, and I'm all for comfort. If you want to stay here, you're welcome. I told you -- you go where you want, do what you want. But I'm going to bed to listen to the storm and catch up on the sleep you deprived me of. The bed is big, it's nice and soft, and it's going to have me in it. The choice is yours."

I put on what I fondly think of as my come hither look but which probably makes me look like I've got Bell's palsy. He's unsure, but then he takes my still outstretched hand and stands up. "Okay, I'll give it a whirl."

"That's my boy -- live dangerously, Highlander." I pull the towel off his hair -- he's going to look a mess when it dries. "Want me to brush this out?"

He grimaces. "Guess we'd better."

"Go sit on the bed, I've got a comb somewhere I think." And so I do. I fetch it from the bathroom and find him propped up against the head board. I sit next to him.

"Methos, why are all the beds you don't use made up?"

"Indulge the eccentricities of age, Mac. I like a little variety, that's all." I don't need Freud to tell me why the visitor's bedroom is always standing ready. "Why don't you lie down in my lap?"

He gives me a startled look, but I remain cool, pointing at the object in question. The fact that it is a nude lap I pretend to ignore. He slides down and before I know it, he's face down in my groin and his breath is warming up my cock. I swallow but affect indifference -- I suspect he's trying to get a rise out of me in more ways than one. It is, however, the perfect position for me to comb out the damp tangles, which I start to do with as much care and gentleness as I can command. His hair would shame many a woman -- it reminds me of my thirty-fourth wife in fact. He lies perfectly still as I tease out the knots and ease the long curls out into a shining dark fan, and I think he's fallen asleep, which is a good thing, if a little uncomfortable for me in this position. I console myself by continuing to comb his hair out in long, careful sweeps but nearly jump out of my skin when he suddenly licks the bit of my cock lying under his mouth. I comb, he licks. Oooh, gods.

Not asleep then. I carefully spread my legs a little, and a sly hand slips up my leg and moves my sex so he can take it in and suckle it. Should I say something? Do I want this? Do bears crap in the woods?

I keep stroking his hair, and down on his back -- I can reach his buttocks from here so I rub a little in his cleft which makes him squirm. Suddenly he lifts his head and looks at me seriously. "Methos ..." he says huskily.

"Whatever you want, " I say, just as seriously. He looks worried and uncertain. I put my hands on his shoulders. "Lie down, Mac," I say, easing him over onto his back, before I kiss him gently on his forehead, over each eyelid, his nose. He's smiling as I reach his lips, and I indulge myself a little with his warm, talented mouth. I move down, and lave one dark nipple until it's standing and he is gasping softly, then I move to the other one. So responsive, so sensitive. He arches up, I hold his hips down. "Easy, big fella," I murmur, then I lick down the line of fine hairs to his genitals. His skin is rain washed and sweet -- I nip him gently at the base of his stomach and he mutters incoherently.

I never got to taste him before, thanks to his scruples and my idiocy, but I will not be denied now. His cock is thick and warm in my mouth -- he's not hard, but it won't take long. Or so I think as I lave, and suck and swirl and use every trick in my armoury to arouse him, but although he's gripping my shoulders painfully, and wriggling in every sign of pleasure, he stays resolutely limp. I give the old boy a last kiss and come up to the bed so I can look in his eyes. "How long?" I ask him as gently as I can, because his eyes are dark with shame.

"Months -- nearly a year," he whispers. "It's no you, Methos. I don't know what's wrong ..." His hand comes up to cup my face, pleading for forgiveness for which there is no need. I take his hand and kiss the palm.

"It's all right, Duncan. It's perfectly normal when you're under a lot of stress -- I've spent years when I couldn't get it up."

"Really?" Years without sex -- unthinkable to the Highlander.

"Oh yes. But it got better again. The problem is up here, Mac," I touch his forehead. "Once we get that right, everything else will fall into line."

"But I love you, and I want you -- what's wrong with me?" Four hundred years, and never suffered from limp dick before -- lucky man.

"Nothing, Duncan. Nothing that a bit of rest and relaxation won't cure. But you were enjoying what I was doing, yes?"

"It was great -- it's nothing you're doing ..."

"I'd hope not, infant," I say reprovingly but I smile. "But if you don't mind, I don't mind -- you taste so good, Mac."

"I don't mind," he says thickly, and I immediately return to my task. I lick him, his balls, and the inside of his strong thighs. I rub a careful finger over his entrance and he moans -- but I don't think I'll pursue that for now. I retrace my tender journey down his body, until I am again face to face with him and kissing him, pulling him into my arms and rolling him on top of me, so I can grip his buttocks and bring his groin hard on mine.

"Methos, God, I want you," he groans.

"And you shall have me in time, Duncan." His hair is swinging over his face, and I push it back. "You're such a beautiful man, Mac. It ought to be illegal."

He rolls off me then with a sigh, and covers his eyes with his arm. "Beauty is only skin deep, Methos."

"True -- I wasn't offering an analysis of your personality, but there's not much that particularly repels me about it. Should I be repelled?"

He doesn't say anything, and I sense an attack of the drears approaching. I pull his arm away from his face. "Whatever it is, Duncan -- it can wait. You're on holiday here, you should just let go." I pull him over to me again. "Just listen to the rain," I whisper.

I've always found the sound of heavy rain, when I am comfortable and warm (and until the last century, that was a novelty in itself) to be very calming. Duncan goes still and very quiet -- what does it remind him of? The Highlands? Rain falling on an Indian tent? Something nice, I hope.

The first storm is over but there is a belt of them passing over, and the rain only alters in intensity every few minutes but never stops. Seeing how I can't actually do anything outside, I have no conscience about lolling about wrapped in Scot. Said Scot falls asleep, although I'm not sure when since his breathing goes so slow and deep almost as soon as we stop talking. His head is cradled on my chest, and I can play with his hair, wrapping it idly around my finger and watching it curl. I don't remember dropping off to sleep.

 

* * *

Duncan woke with his head on Methos' chest, and had to resist holding the old man tightly in a instinctive reaction, to make sure he would not leave him again. Today was the first time in months he had felt good for more than a few minutes at a time. Beneath the apparently tranquil relationship he had rebuilt with Andrew, he had been dying inside, and when Andrew announced he was leaving, he hadn't felt a thing. Not joy, not regret -- nothing at all. That had worried him. But what really finished him was when he had taken the head of his latest Challenger and he had felt as numb inside as he had when Andrew had given his news. At that moment, he knew he was no longer alive in any meaningful way -- hadn't been for months. He had spent a week getting drunk in a desperate attempt to feel ... anything ... but he couldn't. So he had put everything he owned in Paris into storage, written notes, and flown to Lyon, caught a bus to the nearest place he could to Les Fontaines, and walked the last twenty kilometres.

It was bitterly ironic to him that he had come all this way to ask Methos to take his head because he felt so dead and empty and yet at his first sight of the old man, he was filled with such overwhelming pain and loneliness that he could hardly breathe. Then he knew he wanted to die not because he could no longer feel -- but because he could not ever feel anything but agony again. Yet, here he was, in the arms of the man he loved beyond all sense, comfortable and safe and accepted, something he had dreamed of tormentingly over the last two years but never dared hope for. Would it last? Was Methos only being kind because he was such a pathetic specimen, and would he cast him out as soon as he showed signs of recovery? Or would he tire of an impotent, depressed friend who was incapable of even the simplest preservation of his health and sanity?

He still felt tired. He was tired all the time, no matter how much he slept, no matter how much he worked out or ran. Andrew had became frustrated with his constant excuses of weariness, of being unable to perform, and he was unable to explain. He had tried so hard not to hurt his young lover, but he had ended up hurting them both. He still couldn't believe that Methos didn't hate him for taking up with Andrew again. And he still was astonished that Methos seemed to have so easily set aside his bitter resentment over having Immortality thrust back on him.

He feels sorry for me, Duncan thought dully, realising the answer. A chill ran through him and his contentment died completely. It's all an act, like me and Andrew. Methos had been a doctor, he was probably just reacting to a clear case of depression. It made Duncan feel physically sick, his gut knotted and he wanted to get out of the room and the bed and the arms of his former friend before he threw up. He twisted and realised with a shock that Methos was watching him with kindly eyes that were just slightly crinkling up. "And where are you off to?" Methos asked calmly.

"I, uh, need to pee."

"No, you don't, Mac. Lie still."

"Methos ..."

"Duncan, I've been watching you work yourself up into a fine old brood for the last ten minutes. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Methos tilted Duncan's head towards him. "Say that again."

"Nothing important."

"Ah. Since you want to get out of my bed so fast, I'm going to guess. Let me see -- you think you make me sick? Or I pity you? Or that I'm angry over your little sexual problem? Any of the above?"

"Does it matter, Methos?"

He wanted to crawl under the covers and hide from those perceptive eyes but Methos wouldn't let him. "Yes, Mac, it does, actually. You were so low and lacking in self-esteem you actually thought death was better than living yesterday. Any train of thought which takes you back to that point has to be derailed right now."

"Why don't you leave me alone?" He wanted to crawl away but Methos was holding him, and actually holding him closer than before.

"Because you came to me for help, even if it was the wrong sort. I know you think I'm a totally amoral bastard, but I do have a code I live by -- when the people I love call for help, I give it until they don't need it any more. Even when they don't know they still do."

"I don't need your help, I just need to ...."

"What, Duncan? Run away? Lose a Challenge? Doesn't sound as much fun as letting me pamper you and look after you, does it?" he said gently. "Why don't you let me try for a week or two? And you don't make me sick, and while I pity the state you are in, I don't pity _you_ , Mac. No one could make me do this for you -- not even you."

He struggled to sit up and Methos let him, but kept a hand on him in a clear invitation to stay with him. "If I'd known you would forgive me so easily, I'd never have gone back to Andrew," Duncan said bitterly.

"But I wouldn't, MacLeod, and there's the rub," Methos said coolly, sitting up and taking both his hands. "If you had crawled here on your hands and knees I wouldn't have forgiven you in a thousand years. It's because you didn't, that the pain you had -- and have -- was and is so much more than my stupid tantrum that I could finally put things into perspective, and for that I am grateful. I've never been good at letting go of anger, Mac. When I do, I feel much happier. You have done me a great service."

"So this is just gratitude," Duncan said quietly, readying himself for the truth. Methos grabbed his chin almost roughly.

"No, you twit, this is love, I told you. But until I let my rage go, I couldn't even see that myself. I feel better than I have in two years. Now why don't you stop trying to be in control and let me see if I can't spread a little good feeling over you."

"Like fairy dust?"

"Careful, Mac, about using words like 'fairy' when you're in bed in with a guy." Duncan had to smile. Methos pulled him close and kissed him sweetly. "You're in pain now and you can't see you will ever feel good, but you will. But you have to trust me. Will you? Just for a little while?"

"I always trust you, Methos. It's me I don't trust." His throat felt thick and heavy as if he wanted to cry. "I don't know what I feel or why I feel it any more."

"You will." Methos picked his hand up and looked at it closely. His manner completely bewildered Duncan but he kept quiet, feeling sure Methos would reveal himself soon. He lifted Duncan's hand to his mouth, and Duncan held his breath, but all Methos did was turn it over gently so he could lick the palm, which tickled. Delicately, Methos' pink tongue flicked at the webbing between his fingers, the heel of his thumb, and he nibbled the tops of his fingers as politely as if they were caviar.

"Methos, that's doing things to me ..."

"Getting my own back, you see," Methos smiled slyly. Duncan wasn't sure what he was talking about, but he didn't mind. Methos lifted his hand and placed it in his own short hair, and Duncan obliged by scratching a little, which made Methos 'aah' softly.

"You like that?"

"Mmmm. But you could touch me anywhere and I would love it, Duncan. Your hands are wonderful."

Duncan drew Methos' head closer and placed a soft kiss on his lover's lips. "You can make me feel so good, Methos, and you can make me feel like hell. I'm scared that you might decide to hurt me, because you can."

"I would be lying if I promised you that I would never do so, Mac. But all I can say is that until you are feeling strong and happy, I will do my utmost not to hurt you in any way, and if I do, you must let me try to do better. I'm only human. Will you accept that?"

"Yes. Thank you. I know this is the last thing you wanted ..."

"But it's the one thing I needed. Now, do you want some more sleep? Because I was going to check something in my conservatory since it's raining."

"More plants? Methos, I never suspected this side of you."

"Ah, Mac. How well can Immortals know each other, who are not lovers? Come on, if you're feeling curious -- it's only next door."

"My clothes ..."

"Are wet, and no one is here but me to comment on your rather spectacular bum."

"Spectacular?"

"Stop fishing for compliments, you barbarian, you know perfectly well you have one of the world's ten greatest arses. Next to mine, of course."

"Oh, of course." He never knew when Methos was serious or not when he said stuff like this. But Methos _did_ have a wonderful bum, and if the old man liked his, then who was he to complain? Naked, he followed his lover through a door at the far end of the large bedroom, and entered ... Paradise. "Methos ...." he breathed. "You never showed me this before."

"There wasn't much time, and last time you were here, it was only just being established." Wonderingly, Duncan walked through overhanging passion fruit vines and gourds, pitcher plants and other unknown plants. He recognised some from his South American journeying. There were flowers and pools with fish and stone sculptures ... the conservatory wasn't huge, not much bigger than the combined bedroom/sitting room they had just vacated, but unlike the neighbouring chamber, this one had a glass roof.

"I'm really quite pleased -- I've been working on it for the last two years. Most of these are just for show, fast growing annuals," he said, poking a vine, "but I pot up my seedlings in here, and bring in the frost sensitive plants. And sometimes, I just sits. On a cold winter day, or on a wet one, this is a great place to just close my eyes and pretend I'm in ... oh ...."

"Bora Bora?"

"Something like that. Now," he said, walking over to the corner of the room and fiddling with a water butt and fountain system. Duncan admired his tight backside, and admitted to himself that he could easily get used to nudity around Methos. He came from a colder climate, and clothes were a necessity rather than an adornment but he figured Methos had lived in plenty of cultures where clothing was strictly optional. He let Methos mess about with the water supply while he admired a datura plant hanging over a small pool. He had no plants on the barge -- Andrew had as brown a thumb as he had, and when he'd lived with Tessa, there was no room for pot plants, not with her sculptures. He was trying to think what place he had ever owned where plants were included, and he realised he wasn't big on plants or pets. Methos on the other hand ....

"Do you have a cat?" he asked and Methos straightened up in surprise.

"What, like Ernst Blofeld? Not a pet as such -- Angelique keeps a couple of mousers and I put food out for them, but I hardly ever see them when she's away. Why?"

Now it seemed like a silly thing to ask, and he turned it into a joke. "Oh, I just fancied playing with a pussy," and found Methos advancing towards him with a spanner. "It was a joke!"

"I know it was, it was bloody awful." Methos tapped him on the skull lightly with the tool. "Okay, the water's not overflowing. I want some tea, and then to work."

"Slave driver," Duncan muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing -- coming."

 

* * *

Slave driver indeed. Cheeky infant. But at least he isn't grimacing any more -- I don't suppose he has any idea how rapidly his mood is changing, and how wildly. He's very vulnerable at the moment -- I am being as careful as I would be with a newborn, but there are minefields everywhere for us. I mean, he hasn't mentioned the Challengers yet, or really talked about the Andrew thing, and while I'm not a huge fan of the talking cure, repression of this order is exactly why he's come to this, and why his cock is on strike. I should have thought about that. Bad move, Methos -- making the poor sod feeling inferior like that. But at the same time, the quickest way into the inner MacLeod is by physical affection -- it's going to be a difficult line to walk. The talk about a cat gives me an idea, and I make a mental note to email my estate manager later.

Mac is obviously uncomfortable with this nudity thing. "There's some clean dry clothes in your room," I tell him. "Why don't you change, I'll see you in the kitchen." The relief on his face is obvious -- another mistake. He disappears off and I collect our wet clothes -- I need to do laundry. Or rather, Mac can do it. He's happiest when he can do stuff -- and I get the impression he's had all too much time to think and brood lately.

The rain's stopped, and the air smells deliciously cool and fresh. I stand out in the garden just to enjoy it, and across it, Duncan comes out of his room. I see him smiling as he walks to me. "That was a hell of a storm." He's not joking, the hail stones still lie on the ground like snow. A few plants have been flattened but most have survived. A metaphor for our existence? Let's not get too heavy, old man.

He comes to me, and takes the wet clothes from my hand. "That was fun, in a crazy way," he says.

"More fun if you take all your clothes off first."

"Okay, next time." So I didn't put him off -- that's good. Now he is on the upswing, his eyes are clear. We'll have to work on there being more times when they are clear and smiling, than clouded with sad thoughts.

The rest of the afternoon, and the evening, pass quietly and I'm beginning to get a handle on his moods and his reactions. Choices are bad -- he seems unable even to make his mind up which of two similar wines he wants to drink -- but he is happy to follow my suggestions, and if pushed, to express an opinion. Likewise, if I fall silent, so does he, and will happily not speak for nearly an hour or more unless I take the initiative. He doesn't want to talk about Paris, or the dojo, or the Game, and is most comfortable when I am rambling on about Les Fontaines or my estate. The one thing that has grabbed his interest is my garden, especially the conservatory, and I resolve to involve him in that as much as possible. But whatever we choose to talk about, or whatever we do, spells of melancholia come over him again and again, sometimes just for a few minutes, once for an hour, and I let him work in silence. I want to bottle some of the fruit and legumes which are perfect at this time -- the garden produces much more than we can eat, it always does, and I love having a taste of summer in the dead of winter when we broach the bottles of cherries and pears. Although an excellent cook, preserving is new to him, but he applies his usual concentration and skill to the task, and we get through it smoothly and without fuss. As he seals the first bottle, he says wistfully, "I don't suppose I'll ever find out if they taste good like this."

"You might well do, Duncan. You might be here still by winter, if you want to be. Or you can come back to visit."

His eyes light up at that, but then darken and he goes quiet again. I don't press the point. I don't know what he wants to hear, and I don't know what is best for us.

And there is an us, despite the odds. I've tried over and over to rid MacLeod from my life and my heart and it has only resulted in a lot more misery than hanging around him does. I have to accept that my life is now inextricably bound up with his, and whether I am with him or apart, we affect each other's future and happiness in ways more profound than can be explained by simple love or attraction. It comes down to this -- if he is happy, I am happy, and it would appear the reverse is equally true. I can't even begin to understand it. Not yet, anyway. It is the most nonsensical thing for two Immortals to be in this position, but there you have it.

It rains on and off during the rest of the day and night, and he wanders out every so often to take a look. I can't read his thoughts, and it's possible he isn't thinking. He doesn't look particularly unhappy during these interludes -- just pensive.

Our supper is a light summer soup with a melon for dessert, refreshing and delicious. He cheers up a little, and his appetite is adequate, although the meal is not large and he doesn't want a second helping. He is rather passive, which is strange to see, since the Highlander was always a blur of activity -- rather irritatingly so, I seem to remember. We clear up and he looks lost again. "Care to join me in the library?" I ask.

"I thought you didn't want me to go in there?" he says in some surprise.

"That was before I knew where we stood, Mac. Now what is mine, is yours. If you want to use the computer, set yourself up a profile and customise it how you like. I can sort out your email ..."

"I don't want to look at email," he says emphatically.

"Would you like me to look at it for you?" I ask delicately.

"Would you mind?"

"Not if you don't." More strangeness -- Mac avoiding his friends.

There are dozens of messages waiting for collection -- it's obvious Mac has been avoiding things for a while. A couple from Andrew, burbling about his upcoming wedding ... to a _woman_? Oh, Duncan, I think sadly. He's completely uninterested in the messages, and readily agrees to me sending out a form reply saying he's away for the moment, and will get in touch when he returns. I also adjust his account so the reply will go out automatically in future. "What about Joe?"

"I can't face him, Methos," he says dully.

"I know, Mac. I told him you were here."

"Figured you might."

"He said he hadn't seen you lately."

"I haven't seen anyone lately, he shouldn't take it personally. I don't want to talk to him."

"That's okay, he knows you're here, and he won't tell anyone. He's worried about you."

"Well, that makes it unanimous. Are you done?" Talking about Joe, talking about other people -- more taboo subjects, I see.

We retire to the library. He's restless, not wanting to read anything remotely heavy or likely to arouse emotions. He wanders around, looking at the shelves, and in desperation I shove an early Pratchett at him. His look is 'you _must_ be joking', but I pour him a whiskey and he curls up on the sofa and begins to read. I don't hear a peep out of him for the next two hours, and he even smiles a couple of times. I sit next to him, leaning on him, reading a book on aquatic plants, enjoying the feel of him and the quiet domesticity of it all.

He yawns and stretches. I look at my watch -- it's only just gone nine, and so I'm surprised when he announces he wants to go to bed. "I'm so tired all the time. I don't get it," he says. Classic symptom of depression, I note. He stands up. "Where should I sleep?"

"Wherever you want, Mac."

He looks down at his feet for a moment and then at me. "Where are you going to sleep, Methos?"

"Wherever you want me to. Tell me what you want, Duncan." I stand up and take his hands.

"I don't want to be alone any more," he says miserably.

I lift his chin. "You aren't, and you won't be. We can sleep in your room, if you like."

He nods, looking relieved. But his sleep is just as restless as the night before.

The next few days pass quietly. I keep him busy, respect when he wants to be alone, which isn't often, and when he doesn't want to talk, which is more often than not. He throws himself into working in the conservatory, rearranging the still-troublesome plumbing until the rain water supply is working smoothly and keeping the single pond of fish and all my plants happy. Working with his hands seems to be the only time when he is genuinely content, but he is still reluctant to make suggestions, or take any initiative. Not only because of his depression, but he is also very hesitant and unsure around me. I hardly blame him -- we're both unsure. I pretend confidence and calmness because that is what he needs, but inside, my emotions are in a whirl. I want him physically and mentally, but he has caused me so much pain in the past, I can't ignore that. And then there is the Game. Once he leaves -- and he will leave, however long he stays, it is in his nature -- he will be back in the mindless, pointless struggle for domination which nonetheless has guided his life, and which repels me even more than it did before. Never again, I swore. If I have to live on Holy Ground for a thousand years, I don't want to lift my sword to meet or make a Challenge again. I sated and sickened and purged out any desire for bloodletting two millennia ago.

Duncan isn't ruled by blood lust, I know that, but he has a warrior's spirit, and he's already let slip that he thinks I have taken the coward's way out. Part of him, I know, is troubled even by this brief sojourn, his unhealthy psyche forbidding him even the time to relax and get well without guilt. Fortunately, he has enough sense to overrule this urge -- or perhaps his agony is so great, he really has no option but to stay. But once the guilt gains the upper hand, he will leave -- and then what will I do?

Whenever he broods or goes silent, it's easy for these thoughts to come to me, so I keep him busy as well as myself as much for my sake as his own. I try to offer him as many moments of uncomplicated sensory pleasure as I can find -- to get him back into the habit of happiness, and well, because I love his smile. I touch him often because he likes it and so do I, but he hardly ever reaches for me -- still scared, I think, of rejection. I hope he'll get over it soon.

Three days after his precipitous arrival, my manager's father, Henri Etard, delivers my post and a parcel from the clothing company. He is also carrying a box with holes in it, which he hands to a puzzled Highlander who nearly drops it when he hears the mewing. "There's cats in here!" he said, shocked, putting it down carefully.

"I hope so. Henri's cat is the best mouser in the area -- our other two are his, and Angelique wanted another one. Your mentioning it the other day reminded me, and by luck, it seems the latest litter is ready for a new home."

"Oui, Monsieur," Henri assures Mac. "Chou-Chou is magnifique, and this is her best litter ever, Monsieur Jonathan, je vous assure."

"Come on, Mac -- open it up. You can choose which one we keep."

"Me? I don't know a damn thing about cats." He actually backs away a little. I open the flap, and expose four bright-eyed furry balls of activity. He comes a little closer, curious despite himself.

"As long as they have four legs and a tail, and they are Chou-Chou's, you won't have a problem. Just pick a pretty one -- Angelique likes those, and she wants this one for a house cat." Angelique has said nothing of the sort, but I know we can always use another cat, and Chou-Chou really is a good mouser. Besides, I like the idea of an abbey cat, and if drugs are no good for Immortals, there's nothing to say pet therapy won't work. Henri says he'll take the animal back if there's any problem -- he never has any difficulty finding homes, there is always more demand than there are kittens.

Mac crouches down, and I swear I've seen him go into a Challenge with less apprehension. It is an attractive litter -- they nearly always are. I secretly have my eye on one, and when Mac picks up the black male, I am delighted. Exactly the one I wanted. "Eh, bon, Monsieur. That one is a scrapper. Already he hunts," Henri says proudly -- you'd think he was the father.

"That one, Duncan? You're sure?"

"Yeah. He's okay." He tries to sound casual, but he's already clutching the furball possessively.

"Thanks, Henri. Give my regards to Josephine."

"My pleasure, Monsieur Jonathon. A bientôt."

Henri trundles off. "That was a good choice, Mac -- just the one I hoped you would pick. Now, what are you going to call him?"

"Me? He's your cat."

"I don't think so," I laugh -- the kitten is already half inside his shirt, and has made it clear that MacLeod is his adopted mother. "Cats don't have owners in my experience. Anyway, I'm adding pet wrangler to your titles. So, a name?"

"Jesus!" he yelps, getting a chestful of tiny teeth or claws -- I'm not sure which, as the cat has disappeared completely.

"Hmmm -- appropriate in the circumstances, but I don't think calling that out around the cloisters would be fitting somehow." MacLeod has extracted the kitten now and is looking at him with exasperation.

"How about Adam? He's about as well-trained as you were," he says sarcastically.

"Okay, Adam it is. Now take your partner in crime off to your bathroom and we'll put some food and things down, to help him settle in. I don't want the older cats to frighten him off.

Bemused, Duncan carries my namesake in high state to the bedroom, and I put down some towels in the bathroom for bedding. When I return with water and food and a box of sand, the Highlander is sitting in the bedroom's armchair with 'Adam' on his lap. "He was crying," Mac said defensively. "He's only a baby, Methos."

"He's not the only one," I sigh dramatically. "I suppose this means you want me to bring your lunch and let you off the gardening today?"

"Just for today," he pleads, and although I pretend disgust, I couldn't be more pleased. It's the most enthusiastic he's been since he got here.

"All right -- but only if I can join you later and read?" As it looks like rain again, I'd be doing that anyway. Mac grins happily.

I leave the two in peace all morning -- I do have other things to do -- but pop my head in from time to time to see how they're getting on. Mac may not know much about cats, but he's a natural teacher, and to my relief, there's not much silliness going on. When I bring the box of clothes I'd ordered, the kitten is allowed to play with the wrapping paper, but not to climb on the clothes or the bed, which pleases me to see. Mac is puzzled by my purchases -- "I've got clothes in Paris, Methos," he says.

"Clothes in storage, and besides who's going to extract them for you? Indulge me, Highlander -- I like dressing my lovers." The clothes are good but nothing special -- just colours which I thought would compliment Mac's dark colouring.

"A cat, clothes -- are you trying to tell me something, Methos?" he says, showing me how well everything fits.

"Only what I've been saying for days, Duncan -- you're welcome here, and I want you to see this as your home for as long as you want. Nothing more. No strings, if that's what you mean."

"Story of my bloody life," he mutters, scooping up the kitten which is mewing for attention, and petting him absently.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh nothing -- just that the goddamn gypsy was right about me never being married. Every time I try to put down roots, something comes along to screw it up."

"You said I was your home, Duncan. Why not let that be true, for now."

"For now, for now -- that's what I mean, Methos. What about in a month, six months -- a year?" The cheerfulness is gone again.

"Mac," I say carefully, framing his face with my hands, "you're making the same mistake I did when I took that Quickening. I spent so much time worrying about the future, that I forgot to enjoy the present. Concentrate on the here and now. This little fellow is only going to be cute for a few months at most, and then he'll become a fat old tom cat. If you only think about that, you won't enjoy what he is now."

"How did you get so smart, Methos?" he says, smiling a little.

"Oh, Mac, I'm not half as smart as I should be. I'll leave you two alone -- if you have to go out, shut the window, I don't want our other cats to get in and frighten him."

"They wouldn't!"

"They might. Looks like you've got yourself a responsibility there, Highlander."

He clutches the ball of fluff protectively to him, his sombre mood forgotten, and I go off as I promised.

For the next three days, the cat occupies any longeurs, and I congratulate myself on my clever idea. I don't object to his getting it used to being in the house -- I was serious about it being a house cat, and Mac is not inclined to tolerate any outrageous behaviour. We're both adamant about it not sleeping on the bed, but that problem is solved by a nest Mac makes for him, and a little gentle dissuasion. It gives him something to talk about, something to think about that is pleasant. I begin to think there's light at the end of the tunnel for him.

Or not. There are traps everywhere, as I discover, cutting up carrots one evening, while Mac feeds the felines. "Shit!" I yelp as I slice my hand open -- I've become careless again since regaining my Immortality. Mac comes over, all concern as I hold onto the injury with my other hand, waiting for it to heal. He gulps, goes completely white and looks about to pass out. His eyes are fixed on the blood on my hand and on the counter. He runs out, nearly killing his precious kitten in the process.

"MacLeod!" I bellow. "Fuck!" There are cats and catfood everywhere, blood all over our meal and my hand is still dripping. What is _wrong_ with him? I chase the older cats out, shut the kitten in, give the counter a swipe with a cloth, before going in search of the spooked Scot. It's dark outside -- the cloister lighting is activity triggered to save electricity, and there is no clue where he's gone. I hope he hasn't done something stupid like try to climb the hill. I walk down one wing, and suspect I know where he might have gone. I go into the conservatory, feeling his presence, and sure enough, he's there, looking at the rain water butt, his fists clenched. "Mac, what's wrong?"

He shakes his head, but lets me lead him over to the bench where I like to sit. He flinches when he sees the blood on my hand, so I wash my hands in the sink before I return to him. "Duncan, what is it?"

He puts his hands over his eyes. "I keep seeing her, Methos. In my dreams, and just now ..."

"Who?"

"This girl ... the last Immortal I killed. She was seventeen years old, Methos. Can you believe that? She didn't just look seventeen, she really was ... I killed a child," he whispered, beginning to rock. Joe fucking Dawson, you could have told me this, I curse silently. "There are too many. They keep coming and coming and I have to kill them. It's just slaughter," he says and then he begins to cry quietly. I try to pull him close, but he fights me. "Don't touch me, I don't deserve it!"

"Look at me, MacLeod," I say coldly. I grip his shoulder. _Look_ at me!" I almost shout, and he lifts his head in alarm. "Look at me and tell me you've done anything that I haven't done a thousand times over, and for fun. Not for the Game, not because I was threatened. Just for fun. Look at me, goddamn you!"

"Methos...."

"Duncan, you will not do this to yourself. I will not allow it, do you hear? Yes, you've killed a lot of people lately. Did you go looking for a fight?"

"No, I've been hiding to avoid them ..."

"Right -- and did you give them every chance to walk away?"

"They've all been kids ..."

"Did. You. Give. Them. A. Chance?"

"Of course I did...."

"Mac, I know you did. I knew that before you told me. So why did you kill this girl? Why didn't you just walk away?"

"She ... she ... Methos, I tried. I told her to go away, I walked off -- she threw a fucking knife at me, got me in the back. She was going to kill me when I was down, so I had ... had to ..." He chokes.

"You had to kill her. I get that. Mac," I say, holding his face, "you've had to do this before. Why is this bothering you?"

"Because it should have bothered me then and it didn't!" he shouts. "There's so many of them. I'm killing all these ... kids ... and I feel ... nothing. Nothing at all. I'm becoming a monster."

This, I hadn't suspected. "You're _not_ a monster. Trust me, I know whereof I speak. Duncan, killing is not natural to us, any of us. If we like it, it means we're sick or evil or both, and if we don't, it's going to damage us and the more we do, the more it damages. Did you ever talk to Joe about Vietnam?"

"I'm not a child, Methos," he says coldly. "Killing is what we Immortals do."

"No, it is not. Killing is no more innate to us than for any other human -- we've just told ourselves it's necessary. Plenty of Immortals don't kill. Plenty of us stay out of the Game and don't give a flying fuck about the Prize. You could be one of them if you wanted to be. But you have no control over people seeking you out for a fight, however old they are."

"I should feel something," he says distractedly, and I know what I've just said has gone in one ear and straight out the other. "But I feel numb."

"You clearly feel something, or we wouldn't be out here while Adam steals the chicken. Mac, you didn't know this girl -- grieving isn't appropriate, and you were killing in self-defence, so guilt is misplaced. What do you think you should feel?"

"Sorrow, regret ... anger over all the wasted lives..." he says helplessly. "Something."

"And what's this?" I say gently, wiping a tear from his face and holding it up to him. "You do feel all these things, but your mind is shielding you from the full weight of it, to preserve your sanity. Your body knows, though -- your tears, your impotence, your sleeplessness -- all because you aren't numb, far from it."

"I hate myself. I don't know myself any more. I don't know what being Immortal means to me any more, or the Game or any of it. All I know is that I want to stop killing. Like you did."

My poor Highland child, I say to myself. "You can. You have. Mac, this isn't the time to talk about future plans, but while you are here, you're safe, and you don't have to lift a weapon. Not unless, of course, Adam has eaten our supper."

He lets me draw him up, kiss him, and we walk back to inspect the damage. The kitten, in fact, is sitting, as I expected, on the counter, looking remarkably cool and collected, and while I suspect he gave our fowl a lick or two, he's a little small to really care about raw meat. I clean up, Duncan takes Adam away and keeps him off the counter while I put the chicken on to roast, then I pour Mac a hefty slug of whiskey. Alcohol seems to help him, which goes directly against all the advice I've ever seen about depression, but Immortal physiology is a weird thing to come to grips with.

"Guess you must think I'm a hell of a mess," he grimaces after taking a large slurp.

"I think you're in an impossible position, Mac. And I am sorry for the extra pressure I've put on you."

"I put you back in the Game," he says bitterly. "Now I know why you were angry at me."

"You saved my life, and I was too angry, too full of what I thought I had lost, to admit it. I'm not saying I wouldn't be content to become mortal again, but there are some benefits to being Immortal, for sure. I just needed time to adjust. So do you."

He sighs. "Look, I'm not hungry, and I think I'd like to be alone for a while. Do you mind if I take his lordship into the library?"

"No, of course not. Supper will keep if you change your mind. Do you want me to come find you later?"

From his agonised expression, I can tell he really means 'alone'. "I'll see you in bed later. I'll be here until then."

I sit staring into space until the bird cooks, but I'm no hungrier than Mac -- it will make our lunch tomorrow. Instead I pour myself a drink too and sit on the sofa, thinking about what he's said. Some of what he's suffering is post-traumatic stress, but that's almost the normal state for any Immortal who's not a psychopath (and that's more than half of us, despite the lunatics Mac seems to encounter). I'm no Sean Burns -- I can't begin to unravel the damage four hundred years in the Game has done, any more than I can really undo what I did to myself by being part of the Horsemen for so long. I had to grow up, and it took a thousand years -- Mac's got more maturity, less anger, and I hope it won't take so long. But it still takes time. The trick will be to buy enough for him before he loses his head -- by accident or design.

After a couple of hours, I hear the library door open and close. I wait a few more minutes before heading down to the bedroom. He's sitting on the bed, petting the kitten who's asleep on his lap. He lifts red-rimmed eyes to mine as I sit next to him. "Are you okay?" He nods. "Do you want me here tonight? I could sleep in my own room."

"No, I want you, Methos. If you don't mind."

For an answer, I lean over and kiss his cheek, then touch the cat who is purring. "Does he help?"

"They don't judge, do they?"

"No. Sometimes you need that. But Mac, you don't need to judge yourself. What you need is to find a way to live with what you do."

"I can't," he whispers. "I know you think I play the Game, but for years I didn't when I lived with Tessa, and before with the Cherokee. I hate it. After ... after Richie... I swore I wouldn't lift a sword again. Joe talked me back into carrying it again." I curse myself -- I'd actually approved of Joe doing that. "If I'd kept my vow, all those people would be alive now. That girl would be alive."

"Duncan -- they might easily be dead by someone else's hand, or have killed others. That girl -- she was a Hunter. If she'd taken you down, she'd have gone on killing, right?"

"Instead it's me who's going on killing. Well, no more. No one else is going to die because of me."

"Good. That's a start, Mac."

"But they still keep coming. They know where I live ... you think I should leave Paris, don't you."

"It's one solution. Another might be to carry a gun and not hesitate to use it. I know it's anathema to you, but you don't have to accept every Challenge that comes your way -- I don't, never did."

"Neither do I, Methos, I know you don't believe that. But if I don't fight, then they might do like Liam O'Rourke and take Joe."

"Then lower your visibility, don't make your friendships so obvious, and carry a gun. Otherwise, you'll end up like that fake Methos."

"It was so tempting, what he said," he sighs. His forehead wrinkles.

"Headache?"

"Yeah."

"Then let's stop talking, put the cat to bed, and us as well. Duncan, you really do have time to think here. Take as much time as you like, as you need. God knows I don't want you to leave."

That surprises him, and he cups my face. "Methos ... we haven't talked ..."

"No, we haven't, and we won't, not yet. I'm not going anywhere." I kiss the palm of his hand. "I'll still be here when you're ready."

"Do you know I love you?" he says, stroking my face.

"I think I probably do. Give me this chap." I lift the sleeping kitten off him and put it in the basket beside the bed. When I turn back to Duncan, he surprises me by pulling me down with him onto the bed.

"Make love to me, Methos?"

"You mean ..."

"Yeah, take me. I need you so much, I need you to fill this emptiness in me..."

The desolation in his voice makes a liar out of his spoken need, and I'm not entirely sure what his motives are, but I want him too. Being the strong, reasonable one kinda sucks. He's only wearing a T-shirt and shorts -- I undo his fly and see the rat is not wearing any underwear. "Doesn't that catch on things?" I ask cheekily.

"You're getting soft, Methos."

"Maybe," I say, lifting his shirt over his head, "I have nothing to prove. And I'm rather attached to my old fella -- snagging it in a zipper is not the way I want to test my healing powers."

He pulls a face to say 'ouch'. I strip while he shimmies out of his shorts. As always, I just want to stand and stare at him -- a god come to earth, no doubt about it. "You and Adam have exactly the same look when you're after something, you know that?" he says, almost smiling.

"That animal better know better than to be after anything I want, Duncan," I say seductively, running my hands over his stomach and pushing him down. "Do you really want this?" I ask more seriously.

"Only for years, Methos. For years, and years ... please," he whispers. "Fill me up."

"Roll over, love," and then I spread myself over him, relishing all the broad strength under me. I kiss his shoulder and spend a a minute or two just nuzzling at his neck, while my hands knead at his back. I love the scent of him, the trust he's giving me, baring his most vulnerable place to me. But then it is hardly less than what he has done this week, baring his soul to me, and I want to give him something back.

Still lying on him, I reach over for the oil I brought here two nights ago when I gave him a back rub, thankful I don't have to stop and go searching for lubricant. I only shift enough that I can work my fingers into him, and then my erection. This is not going to be hard and fast for either of us. He asked to be filled, not fucked, and my need to connect with him outweighs any desire for orgasm. My oiled hand closes around his unaroused cock, holding it gently, and then I just rock slowly, on him and in him. He holds my other hand close to his chest, and he murmurs to me, speaking of his love. But then it changes, he's telling me half in words, half in quiet sobs of his pain, of his sorrow, of the people who have died and his body shudders under me.

And as he cries, and lets it out, I rock into him, and hold him, not speaking but letting my lips kissing his shoulders, his neck, offer him comfort, my sex joining us, the warmth between us comforting us both. And when the long painful catharsis ends, I feel him go boneless under me, and quiet, so I still myself, still joined, and lay my cheek on his hair, so we can sleep, and heal together.

 

* * *

He's gone when I wake up, and there is a momentary panic until I realise the kitten is missing too. Surmising he's probably gone to feed Adam or such, I pull on my shorts and go in search. He's sitting under the tree, watching the cat jump on bugs in the flower beds. The serenity in his face takes me aback -- something's changed.

"Hi," he says as I sit next to him, and he reaches over for a kiss. "Sorry about last night -- I don't think I've ever fallen asleep _during_ sex before."

"I thought it was sweet, actually," I admit, letting him wrap an arm around my shoulder and kiss me again. "How are you?"

"Better. A lot better." He doesn't need to tell me -- his eyes are clear, and the lines around his mouth have disappeared. "I've been thinking -- been out here for a couple of hours. You're right -- things have to change. And now I can see how."

I don't reply. He can take his time. Adam the kitten has decided that he wants attention and is mewing around Mac's feet. He picks him up and settles him easily on his lap, and the little scruff curls up. "He's really taken to you, hasn't he?" I say.

"It's like when I met 'Adam Pierson', don't you think? He made himself at home too."

"We Adams know when we're well off," I say, nuzzling him a little.

He smiles. "I realise what happened to me now. I was fighting on too many fronts. I needed to regroup -- you've let me do that."

I nod, and stroke the cat now purring away. "I spent over five thousand years trying to survive, Mac. And when I became mortal, I realised that was all I was doing -- surviving. When I met you, I met someone who didn't just survive, you lived. You didn't let your Immortality stop you from living your life to the full..."

"Not lately I haven't," he murmurs.

"No, but you always knew _how_ , Duncan. It was something I had to learn very painfully. All you needed was reminding."

"I can't play the Game any more. I don't believe in it any more. I don't want to kill any more."

"What will you do?" I ask. Crunch time. Will he stay or will he go?

"Now? I want to spend more time with you. A _lot_ of time, Methos," he says, a smoky look in those beautiful eyes of his.

"Do you see me complaining? But what about after that?"

"After that ... I'll find a way that I don't need to carry my sword. I might need lessons," he says seriously, but his eyes twinkle.

"You mean in becoming a devious bastard?"

"I've come to the master, don't you think?"

"You'll need to change your name," I tell him.

"Yes," he says, kissing my neck.

"Carry a gun."

"Uh huh."

"You're not listening to me, Highlander," I say a little breathlessly. He knows what he's doing to me. "Trying to finish what we started last night?"

"Yeah -- no one's going to say Duncan MacLeod left his lover hanging."

"Ego, thy name is MacLeod ...ooh, god, Mac." He's slipped his hand inside my pants and is gently squeezing my cock. I push them down.

"You're a real slut, Methos," Duncan says fondly, taking his own pants off one-handed. The kitten has already been evicted and is complaining.

"Only for you, Mac ... Mac ... " I look in wonder at him -- he's as hard as me.

"Yeah, it's about time." He stretches on top of me. The bench is not that comfortable to lie on.

"We could go back to bed ..."

"I said when we came back I would make love to you here," he says in a low voice which makes my cock fill even more and the small hairs on my neck lift.

"So I should be looking for pricks?" I say innocently.

"I think pricks might be definitely involved," he murmurs under my ear. "And I'm counting on you to finish what _you_ started last night."

He rubs himself against me. "Mac, I'll never last if you do that," I say breathlessly, unable to stop myself thrusting against that hard body of his. Suddenly he stands, and holds his hand out to me. I think he's changed his mind about the bed, but then he positions himself with his hands on the back of the bench, his legs spread.

"Please, Methos?"

Oh, Gods. What a sight. What an offer. My mouth goes dry with lust. I stand behind him and hug him from the back, running my hands down the front of his body and taking hold of his erection. I don't want to stop and find something to ease the way in, He's still slippery from last night, and my finger slides into him, gentling, teasing him. He shivers, but not from the slight early morning chill in the air.

"Methos, don't wait ..." he pleads. So I breach him and push in slowly and we both heave in a breath as the sensation increases. He pushes back, an unsubtle hint for more, so I begin to move. I don't want to hurry, I want to savour this, the feel of him and the power of the man underneath me. Sex with Immortals can be a heady thing, especially if the Quickenings flare and mingle at the point of joining, when passions are high and both partners are in tune and in need. As they are now. He gasps as he feels it strike, and his cock goes rigid in my hand, then he begins to thrust into my fist in sync with my movements. His long back ripples and his buttocks are rock hard under my hips, and being inside him, making love to him, is like riding a tiger -- dangerous, exciting, beautiful. He roars his completion, spattering the wooden seat, and the clenching of his body drags my orgasm from me almost painfully.

I hold on to him for my own support, out of breath, sated, boneless, blissfully complete. "Duncan ..." I murmur. "Love you ... fuck, Jesus!" I yell. I've just been attacked in the ankle region by a set of needle like claws and as I shake my foot in reflex, I trip over my legs and his, pulling us backwards in an ungainly jumble of limbs. Mac lands on top of me.

"Please don't tell me we just fell on the cat," he giggles.

"The bloody cat is _fine_ , Highlander," I wave in annoyance at the dancing ball of black fur which has no doubt amused itself in its own feline fashion at the success of its revenge.

Mac rolls over and peers at my face. "Oh, poor little thing, did Methos hurt himself?" He pouts and I push at him without success.

"Get off me, you big oaf," I say. "That animal just ruined the best sex I've had in fifty years."

He doesn't move. "Fifty years?"

"Hmmm mmm." I can't talk because he's kissing me and his tongue is half way down my throat.

"I wouldn't worry, Methos, there's going to be a lot more when that came from," he promises silkily, and then proceeds to prove how much more there will be. The cat gets bored with playing with us long before we do.

 

* * *

_MacLeod's island, Washington State, 2007_

Duncan watched the rowboat approach, pulled easily along by Methos' strong arms. Already he could see Joe's grin, and he could tell even at this distance that the Watcher was in excellent health. "Hey, Mac!" Joe exclaimed as Duncan extended a hand to help him out of the dinghy. "You're looking good."

"I was just thinking the same about you, Joe. Is that all you brought?" he said, as Methos lifted two modest bags out of the boat.

"Watchers learn to travel light, Mac. Anyway, I figured I could always go naked if I run out of clothes."

Methos coughed and indeed sounded like he was about to choke to death. Duncan thumped his back, and when the older Immortal straightened up, his green-gold eyes were sparkling with humour. "Of course, we don't mind as long as we can do the same, Joe," Duncan said disingenuously. "Are you all right, Methos?" he asked solicitously as this induced fresh paroxysms.

"Huh, I think you better try the Heimlich manoeuvre," Joe said, watching the helpless man. "Forget about him, tell me what's happening with you?"

Callously Duncan left Methos to recover and bring the bags while he and Joe walked up the short path to the cabin. "Those new legs are working well," he commented.

"Yeah, they just get better and better. Now they can replace so many bits of me, I'll be a cyborg and damn near Immortal before they're done," he said disdainfully.

They reached the porch and Joe sank onto the bench there, which looked out over the lake. "Man, I love this place. Is Methos' abbey this beautiful?"

"Pretty near. We're working on that disabled access, you should be able to get in and about by the end of the year. "

Joe waved his hand dismissively. "Don't sweat it, Mac. As long as you keep in touch, I don't mind. You got rid of the loft finally?"

Duncan filled him in. He was now officially divested of all his earthly possessions, which had been transferred to a number of 'relatives' and 'friends' (all him or Methos), and the only real estate he held was his island and two other pieces of holy ground, one in France, the other in South America. Shortly Duncan MacLeod would cease to exist. He and Methos planned to live at Les Fontaines mostly, with brief trips when necessary to their other homes. What he didn't tell Joe was that once he had passed on, they had other, more private plans of which their Watcher friend was completely unaware -- Duncan and Methos would both disappear from the sight of the organisation, and hopefully from that of all other Immortals. The wrench was greater for Mac. He had more friends, more ties, but he accepted it as the price for getting out of the Game for good. Methos had left the decision to him alone, saying he would go with whatever Duncan wanted.

"And if that means going back to Paris?" he'd asked.

"That too."

"Even without a sword?"

Methos had taken his face gently in his hands. "No one lives forever, Duncan." Even though he knew that Methos had come to know this truth more fundamentally than even he, Duncan, had done, the words had still sounded strange from the lips of the world's oldest man.

Methos now joined them, sitting on the ground near Duncan's feet. Unselfconsciously, Duncan put his hand on Methos' shoulder and began a gentle one-handed massage. Joe smiled a little, and Duncan knew what he was thinking -- their Watcher friend was more than a little delighted by their reconciliation, even though he liked to pretend it just made his job easier since he could Watch two for the price of one. That didn't explain why he had accepted the invitation to spend the last of the summer with them on Mac's island.

Methos absently stroked Duncan's bare leg. "Still planning to retire next year?" he asked Joe.

"As soon as I can, buddy. I don't like these kids who are taking over the Game. I gotta admit when you said you were getting out of it, I thought you were making a mistake. You should've seen them at Headquarters, Mac -- the bookies were running around squawking about the odds being changed unfairly."

"My heart bleeds," Duncan said dryly. He had always found the unofficial but still blatant betting on the outcome of the Game carried out by the Watchers to be repellent in the extreme, and had taken a fair bit of pleasure in screwing up the system. "So who's the favourite now?"

Joe shrugged. "There's five or six names mentioned, but no one much worth talking about. You sure you don't mind giving up the Prize? It'll never be won if you hide forever."

"Tough," Methos said firmly. "The world's gone on perfectly well without it for billions of years. I know that if it's a choice between Duncan and the Prize, there is no choice."

"And that goes for me, too," Duncan added, looking down with love in his heart at his long-limbed lover and receiving a blinding smile in return.

Joe smiled too. "You know, I'd make a lot of romantic women at the office happy if I could tell them about you two. Might even make up for the lost wagers."

"Joe ..." Duncan admonished. They'd emphasised to him that their relationship was to be kept out of the Chronicles. "It's the price of my cooperation," Duncan had told Joe firmly.

"I know, I know. I'm just saying .... What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?"

"I'll get the whiskeys, Mac," Methos said, rising easily. "And soda pop for the old man," he said mischievously.

"Don't even think about it," Joe warned. "Immortal or not, I can still whup your ass." He shook his cane and Methos feigned terror before skipping out of range and inside.

They spent a couple of minutes just looking out onto the reflection of the setting sun on the water. "He's looking happy, Mac," Joe said finally. "I've wanted to see him like that for a long time."

"Me too. I think he is happy. He's always hated the Game, the mindlessness of it. Even without us, he would have done this, I think."

"You know they will come for you, don't you?" Joe said quietly.

"And they will find us ready, Joseph," Methos said, coming out of the doorway, holding three Scotches, despite his threat. "We have our resources, and our escape routes. I don't intend to give my Quickening to some kid."

He handed the drinks around. "To life," Joe said.

"To love," Duncan added.

Methos looked at them both over the top of his glass. "To efficient slug control," he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Duncan clinked his glass against Methos'. "Amen to that." And after a moment, Joe grinned and joined their toast.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written nearly twenty years ago under another pseudonym. It hasn't been revised (or reread by me) since then.
> 
> I am posting this and my other stories from this period purely so people can read them if they choose. I won't be reading comments, and don't care if you leave kudos. I'm dumping them and running.
> 
> Having said that, I worked hard on them, and I hope they still entertain someone out there.


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